


We Are Far Too Young and Clever

by laudatenium



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Bottom Tony, Domestic, Hurt Tony, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Irish Steve, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Really small though, Steve also makes a surprising amount of soup, Teen! Tony, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3111269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudatenium/pseuds/laudatenium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his head, he knew Tony was still a kid.  Suffering from shell shock and whatever emotional abuse Howard had managed to put him through.  </p><p>But even with that, Tony somehow rose above it all to become extraordinary.</p><p>He was a teammate, a genius, and a friend.  He was terribly mature for his age.  Tony was Iron Man, not Iron Boy.</p><p>Despite everything, there still stood an age difference of ten or seventy-six years, depending on your calculation.</p><p>But his heart was telling him not to listen.</p><p>----</p><p>AU where Tony becomes Iron Man at 16, an Avenger at 17, and Steve's . . . infatuation at 18.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things Round Here Have Changed

**Author's Note:**

> All titles from "Come On, Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners.
> 
> I'm not tagging this as underage, because Steve and Tony don't do anything while Tony's seventeen, but it could still be trigger-ery for someone. Just warning you.

Sometimes Steve liked to sit still, sketch pad in his lap and charcoal clutched in his fingers, and gaze over the Manhattan skyline.  It helped, gazing over the buildings, trying to determine what was new, what was old, what had been remodeled, and what had been knocked down.  It was therapeutic in a way that none of his grief and adjustment councilors had helped (maybe because he had never attended more than one session with each new one that was recommended).  Maybe it was easier, seeing the changes to a skyline that had been so familiar from across the river, instead of in the faces of people he had never known.

 

His fingers were black with charcoal, and occasionally he mistook it for the smoke of burned bodies.

 

“Somethin’ eatin’ you Cap?” came a sly voice, starling Steve from his musings.  “Making Captain America sad must be against the constitution.”

 

Steve smiled in spite of himself.  “No, Tony.  It’s not illegal to be lost in thought.”

 

Tony’s eyes widened comically, leaning over the back of Steve’s armchair, hair dangling so much that any closer and Steve would probably be sneezing.  “Oh, and I’m not ever thinking?  It’s kind of my day job.”  He smelled of hot metal, and grease, and orange.

 

“Yes, but you don’t have a filter.  You always say just what you’re thinking, so there’s never any mistaking your mood.”

 

Tony grinned up through curly lashes, and wow, Howard’s eighteen year-old son was probably the biggest surprise the future held.

 

Howard, after realizing he had no heir, had married a scandalously young wife in the early nineties.  Tony had been the product of the horrendously mismatched couple.  Howard and Maria had only cooperated in private until Tony’s conception.  Tony had been born into a house with estranged parents in 1994, who stayed married only for appearances.  The reports Steve had read said that Howard had been largely absent, and while Maria had tried, it hadn’t added up to much.  She’d been too broken. 

 

Tony had been sent to boarding school at the age of seven, and had been home for the summer after he turned fifteen, planning on heading to MIT in the fall, when a drunken Howard had rammed the car he and Maria had been driving back from a gala of some sort into a tree.  At fifteen, Tony had been orphaned and became head of a company he had never been trained to handle.

 

Obadiah Stane, Howard’s business partner and heir presumptive until Tony’s birth, had taken control and had encouraged Tony to head to MIT while still producing inventions for Stark Industries.  A year later, and after an incident of kidnapping that Steve still hadn’t been debriefed on, Tony had built the Iron Man suit and had taken over from Stane, who had mysteriously disappeared.

 

At sixteen, Tony had to drop out of university to take over his hated father’s company.  At sixteen, with the arc reactor embedded in his chest, Tony became Iron Man, the teenage nuclear deterrent.

 

By seventeen, Tony had tenuously established himself as the head of SI, with the handpicked Pepper Potts operating what he was not legally allowed to until he turned twenty-one.  He had successfully been operating the armor for a year before the Invasion.

 

Now, at eighteen, he was one of the Avengers, something Steve could tell Tony was immensely proud of, no matter how much he brushed it off.

 

But all of his back story was difficult to reconcile with the teenager in front of him.  At ease as he moved away from Steve’s chair and sprawled onto the couch cushions, leg thrown carelessly over the arm.  Easy smile on his lips, eyebrows quirked in such a way that implied his tremendous intelligence.  But there were lines where there shouldn’t be, worry lines that Steve had never formed even growing up in the heart of the Depression.  He sounded so weary as he softly murmured:

 

“You know me so well, Cap.”

 

It stung as Tony shifted, trying to find the best crevice to embed himself in.  It stung that Tony thought Steve wouldn’t care, that Steve didn’t think he was worth knowing.

 

“Why wouldn’t I want to know you?”

 

Tony froze from where he was shoving a pink-and-orange striped sock between to cushions.  “Well, not many people do.”

 

“People don’t want to know Tony Stark.  Tony Stark is a teenager who thinks he’s better than everyone, rubs his intelligence in other people’s faces, and is an asshole because he’s rich enough so he can be.”

 

“There better be a ‘but’.”

 

“But _Tony_ , the teenager who has somehow become both a leader in several industries and a superhero in the time it takes most to get really good SAT scores.  _Tony_ is complete dork who has a stupid little inventing dance.”

 

“I am not a dork.  You are a dork; _I_ am a nerd.”

 

“Sure, Tony.”

 

Tony sighed, sifting restlessly.  “Whacha’ drawing?  Please tell me Captain America draws naked ladies.  Or gentlemen.”  He waggled his eyebrows.

 

Well, if Captain America did, Iron Man didn’t need to know.

 

“The skyline.”  Steve supplied.  “Mapping the changes.  Easier than the changes in people.”

 

“You don’t draw people?”

 

“I never said that.”

 

“Prove it.”

 

“Okay then.  Let me draw you.”

 

Tony looked taken aback for a moment.  “Why?” he asked cautiously.

 

“Look, you’re sitting here, asking, I need a model.  You can take nap or whatever, I just want you permission before I start trying to capture your likeness.”

 

“Well, I have been considering getting it trademarked,” Tony said with a steadily relaxing smirk.  “I’ll just be over here, hopefully sleeping.  Do I have to do a pose or something?”

 

Steve gazed over the scene.  Tony, his hair a mess, wearing a grease-stained sweat shirt and flannel pajama pants, looking somewhere between exhausted and just waking.  He was curled into the side of the couch, one foot trapped in the crevice between cushion and arm, while the other was carelessly dangling over, toes flexing occasionally.  His hands were twitching as well, resting on the throw pillow in his lap, hands freshly scrubbed with GoJo and smelling of pumice and orange, but the lines of his hand were still embedded with grease.  The worry lines of his face relaxed, looking more like a teenager who had stayed up all night finishing a science project than a teenager who regularly challenged what engineering could accomplish.

 

“You look just fine the way you are.”

 

“Awww, then you can’t draw my ass.”

 

“I think I can manage.”

 

“Your loss.”  Tony’s eyes slid closed.

 

They moved into a companionable silence, Tony dozing as Steve worked on placing a shadow of his friend on the newsprint.

 

It was so easy to assume that Tony would have laughed at him and would have been venomous when he called Steve “old man”, but if anything, Tony had become his best friend.  Sure, Natasha was closest to Steve in physical age, or that Clint was “an acidic man-child with the maturity of a sloth” (or so Natasha said), or that Thor knew as much about the intricacies of modern culture as he did, or that Bruce understood being a science experiment.  But Natasha and Clint had never lived ordinary lives and their maturity levels were coping mechanisms, Thor was unfamiliar with the base culture, and Bruce hadn’t been left bereft of seventy years. 

 

They’d all tiptoed around him at first (except Thor, who was on Asgard, and Natasha, who tiptoed right up to his face), but Tony hadn’t.  He’d been brash in his teasing yet uncruel, and would always answer any question that Steve had.  He made fun of his age, yes, but he never made Steve feel stupid or like it was his fault.  He helped Steve were he could, and directed him to someone if he couldn’t.

 

Steve had never appreciated another human being more since Bucky had held his hand out to the scrawny six year-old with blood coming from his nose.

 

“Can I see?”

 

Steve glanced up, seeing Tony, sleep-muzzy and gorgeous as he snuggled into the couch, eyes hazy and filtered with gold.

 

Wait.  Gorgeous?

 

The klaxon sounded.

 

“Aw, sorry Cap.  As much fun as this has been, the idiots who are set on destroying the world can’t wait until Clint decides to watch Keeping Up With the Kardashians.  See you in the field!” Tony shouted over his shoulder, running to his lab to pick up a suit, leaving Steve with a half-finished sketch and a strangely empty heart.

 

 

 

_“I hate portals to another dimension, have I ever told you all?”_

 

In Steve’s opinion, Tony sounded far too calm to be flying around, kicking strange flying lizards that were coming from a purple wormhole out of the air.

 

Thor had gotten the thing to close, but the things were still flying about.

 

_“Well, I hate these lizards.”_ Clint sounded like he was about to launch into a story.

 

Steve sighed.  “I would say chatter, but why do you hate the lizards, Clint?”

 

_“They’re flying lizards, which in my book makes them dragons.  Dragons blow fire.  These do not blow fire.  I am disappointed.”_

 

“Clint, you will wake up strung up by your ankles if you don’t shut up,” Natasha threatened calmly from ten feet away, were she was taking potshots at the lizards.

 

_“Yeah, Clint, if you say ‘blow fire’, karma will mug you.”_ Tony’s laughter crackled through the comm just as the dragon nearest him open his mouth and began to glow.  “ _Oh.  Shit.”_

 

Tony sped away, not focused on anything besides getting away from the lizard.  Forgetting that stoplights were strung across intersections.  And being caught mid-air would allow the dragons to catch up with him.

 

“Iron Man!  _Tony!_ ”

 

There was nothing Steve could _do_ besides scream.  As the suit stopped in midair.  As Tony’s comm cut out.  As the suit began to fall at sickeningly slow pace from 40 stories.

 

No one was close enough to catch him, so he hit the ground, sizzling, embedding himself in the asphalt.

 

He didn’t move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop. Sorry Tony.
> 
> And whoo, new series! How does this one look?


	2. Beaten-Down Eyes Sunk In Smoke-Dried Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 24.5.16: Any views expressed by Steven Rogers on ADHD are not mine nor supported by me.
> 
> I wrote this over a year ago, when I was the early stages of writing. I was still trying to figure things out. I still am. And I messed up. I wrote two paragraphs that have made me question why I bother writing more than any other work I've done. While trying to convey, poorly as I now see it, the very real possibility of Steve's misunderstanding of some things in the modern world that are rather sensitive, I picked a hot-button topic with next to no thought, and never addressed it again.
> 
> I'm not going to delete it. I fucked up. I'm keeping a record of that. I try to remember my own failings.
> 
> And if you think criticizing me publicly is going to help me learn? By all means. You are hurt. But you'll forget. You don't have to care about how this has effected me. But it has. Long before you read this and long after you forget about it.

It’s not right, to see Tony like this.  Tony is movement personified.  Unrelenting in going forward, twisting around, changing.   Even in sleep, Tony is restless, shifting and twitching.

 

His files said something about ADHD.  Steve was still of the opinion that it was just an excuse to medicate people to act “normal”.  Sure, some people had issues with sitting still, but from what he’d researched on the disorder, it was more about concentration.  Tony moved a lot, yes, but his concentration was frighteningly intense.  Steve occasionally wondered what it would be like if Tony concentrated on a person as much as when he concentrated on a project.

 

When the doctors had asked Pepper about the medications Tony needed, she listed the standard cocktail for transplant victims, and said Tony needed sleeping pills occasionally.  They had asked if he needed Adderall, and Pepper had vehemently refused.  Steve was pleased.  That part of Tony didn’t need fixing.

 

But Tony _was_ constantly in motion, and seeing him still was unnatural as blue hair.

 

It took all of his restraint not to pull all of the wires and tubes and monitors out of Tony when Steve first entered Tony’s hospital room.  When Pepper had authorized their entry (“You must be _daft_ if you’re telling me he can only have family.  He hasn't any blood family left.  The Avengers are his family, no discussion.”), Steve had taken the hard armchair next to Tony’s head, and hadn’t moved in nine hours.

 

He just looked so _small_ , in the flimsy blue hospital gown patterned with bland diamonds.  He had a tube in his normally yammering lips, heart monitor attached to normally blurring fingers, IV needle inserted into normally unstoppable arms.

 

“Steve.”  Natasha’s voice.  “Let’s go.”

 

He didn’t look away from Tony’s face.  “I’m not leaving him here alone.”

 

She sighed, and crouched down by his chair.  He felt a cool, gentle yet confident had on his upper arm.  “You don’t have to leave the hospital.  Just come down to the cafeteria, get some food with us.  You need to eat.”

 

“Tony hasn’t eaten.”

 

“That’s because he’s on an IV drip.  He doesn’t need to eat.  You, Captain Super Metabolism, _do_ need to eat.  Come.  You can be back in fifteen minutes.”

 

He let her pull him up, eyes never leaving Tony’s fragile face.

 

 

 

They’d had their fight around midday, and had been admitted to Tony’s room around four, after he had gotten out of surgery.

 

“What time is it?” Steve asked Natasha blearily as she steered him through the maze of carts and hallways, and into the appropriate elevator.  Three months ago, and Steve would have been sitting vigil in the pediatric wing.  He had hated all children’s hospitals they’d made him visit, with their overt cheeriness trying to cover up the scent of dying children.  Smiley faces and rainbows and cancer.  At least in the adult wings, the mood was more somber, and in tune with people’s actual moods.

 

“About one.  There’s a better restaurant open during visiting hours, but the cafeteria here stays open for people with loved ones in urgent care or surgery.  The others are already down there.”

 

They paused by a darkened gift shop.  Steve saw several Hallmark card racks, “Get Well Soon!” balloons, teddy bears, and a bunch of chachkies covered in rhinestones and bible verses.  He shivered.  He made a mental note to bring Tony a tablet and a laptop.  Or get someone else to bring him one. 

 

Thor would probably get Tony the biggest teddy bear he could find.  Bruce would try for a card and probably be laughed at. Clint was sure to fill the recovery room in the most obnoxious balloons available.  Pepper would try for flowers or a fruit basket.

 

“Do we have to get him get-well presents?”

 

Natasha glanced at him.  “Not if you don’t want to.  They’re false sentiment.  Some people just feel better when they buy something.  Makes them feel less useless.”

 

“Are you going to get him anything?”

 

“Well, there is this Godiva gift set I’ve seen.  Everyone can use more chocolate.  I’ll have to wait until he’s awake though, or it will be eaten by my pet bird.”  She tried smiling at him, but stopped at the look on his face.  “What about you?”

 

Steve cleared his throat, glaring at the pushes.  He’d finally seen the Avengers licensed ones.  “I don’t know.  He doesn’t need anything new.  I’ll make sure he gets his tablet and whatever else they’ll allow.  Maybe smuggle in some non-hospital food.  He’s going to be complaining when he wakes up.”

 

He saw her sad smile reflected in the glass.  “He always complains.”

 

“That’s Tony,” he responded, wistful.  “Maybe we can get him one of those stupid Iron Man body pillows.”

 

“Oh, I think he’d prefer a Captain America one.”  She looked at him expectantly.

 

He didn’t want to think about that.  Not now, not with Tony breathing trough a tube four floors above him.  “Maybe I’ll make him a little comic.  He loves those.”

 

“Yeah.  You’ve seen that he’s had them framed?”

 

He stepped back and sighed.  “You’re fishing.”

 

Her eyes widened, looking completely shocked in a way Steve knew was totally fake.  “No, I’m speaking about our friend.  You two are best _friends_ , aren’t you, Steve?”

 

He sighed heavily, raking a hand through his hair and rubbing his neck.  He closed his eyes.  “Please not now, Natasha.  Not when he’s like this.”

 

She patted his arm.  “Okay.  Not now.  Later, you and I _will_ be having a discussion if you haven’t done anything yet, deal.”

 

He nodded.

 

“Good.  Now stop worrying about him.  He’d keep himself alive out of pure spite.”

 

 

 

Natasha shrugged when he looked at her beseechingly after he got a load of the food available.

 

“We would get something better, but you refuse to leave him, we refuse to leave the both of you, and I would prefer to keep the arguments with the staff about smuggling food to when he wakes up,” she explained, trying to decide between a prepackaged chicken-veggie wrap or a prepackaged turkey-cranberry on walnut bread.  She selected the sandwich, then plucked a cup filled with chunks of melon and tried to force it him his hands.

 

“You’re a spy.  You could get _something_ past them,” he whined.  He accepted the melon and put it back on the shelf.  She frowned until he picked up another clear plastic cup filled with slightly shrived grapes and apple slices and a strawberry parfait with granola.  She nodded approvingly before picking a second parfait for herself, then ushered him towards the salad bar.

 

He ended up with the parfait, fruit cup, a container filled with macaroni salad, tapioca pudding, a bag of those crackers-trying-to-be-chips, and a rubbery slice of pizza that Natasha forced on him.  They both got bottled water, and he hovered behind her holding her tray as she poured hot water over tea bags in styrofoam cups.  She then led the way over to a table by the floor-to-ceiling window, where the others were sitting.

 

Bruce smiled gratefully at her as she set the still-steeping Chi tea in front of him, and Steve set her tray next to the empty seat to Clint's left.  He put his on the end of the table and slid a chair from a nearby table over instead of pulling over another table.

 

There weren’t many people in the cafeteria.  There were a small group of people in scrubs gossiping and picking at their packed lunches. Over by the exit, three middle-aged men and a middle-aged woman were talking in muted voices as one man tried to wrestle with a sniffing toddler.  They were going over some paperwork, their expressions pinched.  An old man was sitting at the head of the table, eyes unseeing as he fussed idly with his wedding band where his hands were folded around a coffee cup.  As Steve watched, the man shook his head and cut his children off.  “Just pull it.  She’d rather go with dignity.”

 

Visiting hours were over.  The only people still here were working or waiting.

 

Thor had gotten what looked like one of everything (not unusual for him), Bruce had a mostly-empty bowl of a lukewarm vegetable noodle soup, and Clint was chowing down half-heartedly on some of the same rubbery pizza.

 

“Man, dollar slices are better than this shit,” Clint complained.  He let out a little grunt-squeak that meant Natasha had kicked him under the table, even though she looked wholly invested in unwrapping her sandwich.

 

Thor rumbled in agreement.  “I have savored and enjoyed many Midgardian cuisines with great delight.  This,” he gestured with limp fry, “is not one of those times.”

 

“You’re not supposed to enjoy it.  This kind of food is supposed to appeal to the lowest common denominator.  Basic and bland,” Bruce supplied as he fished his tea bag out of his cup with a spoon.

 

“I’ve had MREs better than this shit,” Clint muttered, looking at Steve for permission before nabbing his slice.  Natasha sighed and gave him a look. 

 

He didn’t care.  He didn’t have an appetite.

 

Bruce barked out an unexpected laugh.  “Well, the military-types take care of their people.”

 

“How’d ja ‘ow dat?” Clint asked through Steve’s pizza.

 

Bruce deflated.  “Betty would tell me, when we would go to lunch in the university cafeteria.  Her dad . . . she was an army brat, you know.  Grew up on bases.  Said the army fed better than any educational institution she’d ever been in.”

 

“Yeah, C rations were mystery canned meat and hard biscuits.  I’d trade for one of those right now,” Steve supplied, trying to pull the attention away from talk of Betty.

 

Thor frowned.  “What do you mean by rations, Steven?  I have heard about ration books, but I have yet to understand.”

 

Clint swallowed.  “You ever been out on a battlefield for days on end?  Like the ones where you need to stop and rest and eat before you continue?  Rations are the food you eat when you’re in battle, or trekking in the field.”

 

Thor frowned again.  “When we would do those battles, we would roast game on an open fire.  Surely that’s not what you mean?”

 

Clint stared.  “Motherfu-“

 

“We called those A rations,” Steve cut off Clint before he could start rating about how unfair everything was.  “Fresh food.  Sometimes, you can’t find it, so for those times we carried canned or dehydrated food.  When I was at war, we called them C rats, or rations.”

 

Clint nodded.  “Now, we have MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat.  You add water and heat them up, they’re not bad.  Better than the old ones.”

 

“I’m sure they’re easier to carry,” Steve ignored Clint’s stuck out tongue.  “Metal cans don’t travel very well, but we managed.”  He smiled evilly at Clint.

 

“You wanna go, old man?”

 

“Boys, please.”  Natasha didn’t need to ask twice.

 

Bruce cleared his throat.  “How’s he doing?”

 

Steve felt himself fall back into his earlier state.  “No change.”  He pushed the tapioca pudding at Thor, who had been glancing at it meaningfully.

 

“Well,” Bruce said, determiningly watch Thor peel off the top of the container, “you should be there when he wakes up.  I think it would make you both feel . . . better.”

 

Thor shouted, “Who allowed this horror to be ingested?”, spitting out the pudding.

 

Steve Rogers realized he was in love with Tony Stark in a hospital cafeteria at 1:13 in the morning, watching the Norse god of thunder choke on tapioca pudding.

 

It wasn’t a shock to his system, really, he thought as he watched Clint jump up and try and give Thor the Heimlich Maneuver.  He loved Tony.  The thought and feeling was light as air, easy as breathing without asthma, natural.

 

He loved Tony.

 

It was everything that came after that was the problematic.

 

He buried his face in his hands.  “What am I going to do?”

 

Natasha stroked his hair, Bruce laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.  The three of them watched as Clint and several doctors on break tried to calm the god of thunder down.

 

 

 

When they returned to the floor where Tony was staying, doctors and nurses were running, shouting, all moving towards Tony’s room.

 

“Five bucks it’s Tony.”

 

“Clinton, I refuse to take that wager.”

 

Steve was already running.

 

He pushed through the crowd.  Tony was hyperventilating, flailing about, screaming as he tried to protect the arc reactor.  They keep trying to touch him, pin him down, and he screamed harder, his amber eyes rolling, looking for a way out.  They were trying to calm him, but since when had Tony ever been calmed by a stranger’s presence?

 

“Back off.  Give him room.  Don’t touch him,” Steve ordered in his Captain America voice.

 

The head doctor looked at him helplessly.  “I’m sorry, Captain, but we need to-“

 

“STEVE!” Tony screamed, struggling harder. 

 

Steve grit his teeth.  “That kid has shell-shock.  Get away from him.  You’re giving him a panic attack.”

 

The woman stared uncomprehendingly, and Steve remembered the modern term.  “PTSD.  He has PTSD, and strangers aren’t good for him.”

 

Immediately the medical team backed off, allowing Steve and the others to slip through.  Tony sobbing, threw his arms around Steve’s neck.  Steve eased the oxygen mask off of his face, and Bruce efficiently removed the IV and other monitors.  The blaring of the medical equipment stopped, leaving the room silent except for Tony’s shuddering breaths on Steve’s neck.  Steve held on, stroking his hair.

 

Natasha spoke up first.  “He’s fine.  Let him be.  Call Miss Potts, but otherwise you won’t help the situation.”

 

The doctors and nurses scrambled.  Steve held Tony tighter.

 

 

 

An hour later when Pepper arrived, Tony had calmed down sufficiently for him to assess his cognitive function, which he aced.  He would be fine, he just needed another day or two for observation.

 

Tony would be okay.

 

Pepper and the others were preparing to leave, promising to bring Tony burgers and maybe cheesecake tomorrow.

 

“Junior’s.  I accept no substitutes,” Tony ordered hoarsely.

 

Everyone laughed softly.  Pepper ruffled his hair, and Tony wrinkled his nose.  “Of course.” She glanced up at Steve.  “Will you – are you going to –“

 

“Stay,” Tony requested weakly.

 

Steve nodded at Pepper, who shared a look with Natasha.  Everyone said their goodbyes.

 

When it was just Steve left, he asked “Why do you want me?”

 

Tony’s eyes were glassy from medication, but soft.  “Who wouldn’t want you?”  He shifted, rolling on his side even though they had instructed him not to, unaware of the rapidness of Steve’s heart.  “Sleep better knowing you’re watching me, Steve.”

 

Steve gently stroked Tony’s hair, and he let out a purr of contentment before slipping into unconsciousness.

 

Steve stared at Tony all night, wishing he was younger and less broken.  A young man with no baggage, and a heart ready to devote to someone entirely.  Not a battle hardened young-old man, who had lost everything.

 

He loved Tony.

 

 

 

The next day, the others smuggled in burgers, fries, and a chocolate-caramel cheesecake.  Thor had picked the cake up from Junior’s, and had thought the fishing line they taped to the box to cut it had been a mistake, so he had thrown it away.  Clint had then gone through the nurse’s station, scaring them before he promised they could have some too, if they helped him find a way cut it.

 

One of the nurses had some dental floss in her purse, so now Clint and Thor were trying to figure out how large to cut the slices with half the nursing staff milling about.

 

Tony laughed at the tiny cartoon Steve had made of “IV Man”, sitting in his hospital bed, trying to save the world while “Nutmeg” and “Patriot” nagged him to sleep.  He handed it to Pepper (probably to have it framed), and gifted Steve with an enormous glowing smile.

 

His throat burned and his chest tightened.

 

“Steve, you okay?” Tony looked scared.

 

“He’s fine.  Just needs some air.  Come on, Steve,” Natasha steered him out of the room, Tony’s worried eyes and Clint and Thor’s argument about cheesecake sizes following them.

 

Natasha pulled him through the crowd of nurses, down the hall, into a tiny alcove.  It was down one of the hallways, tucked in a corner, across from the vending machines.  It had been furnished with a couch and several chairs, covered in a slick navy pleather.  There were several small tables covered in a mixture of outdated magazines, pamphlets for diseases and disorders and their warning signs, and worn blue hard-backed illustrated bible stories.

 

He sat on one end of the couch, she on the chair angled ninety degrees right next to him.  He breathed, and she took his hand, squeezing faintly.

 

They were quiet for awhile, Steve gazing unseeingly at the loudly humming refrigerated colas.  The clock ticked, and people rushed efficiently past them.

 

“I’m in love with Tony.”

 

She nodded.  “I know.  I’m waiting for you to explain how that’s a bad thing.”


	3. You're Grown, So Grown

Tony’s fall had been captured on video (because wasn’t everything?), and after several days with nothing other than an official statement of “Mr. Stark is expected to make a full recovery” the news cycle had time to dig up and polish their pieces on why Tony shouldn’t be allowed to be an Avenger.  Pepper had told Steve that falling into their pressure would only add fuel to the flames, but Steve didn’t understand how anyone could sit around and let them spew that sort of vitriol.

 

“How about this, Steve.  In a few days we organize an appearance on one of the morning news shows,” Pepper offered shrilly after Steve crushed the seventh remote in three days in his haste to turn the vicious words off.  Tony and Thor thought it was hilarious, Clint was jealous, but Pepper was fed up with making sure the damage was footed to Tony’s bill.  She claimed that, now that Tony was eighteen, he could handle such things himself, as her time as legal guardian was over.

 

“I dunno,” Steve mumbled, occupying the window ledge, one foot kicked up to lie across the thrumming air conditioner.  “Tony shouldn’t go, and you’re busy.”

 

“I meant _you_ ,” she sighed and straightened her skirt at his dumbfound expression.  “Hear me out.  I _know_ you hate dealing with them, but sad to say the media trusts you.  Your testament to Tony’s character would be far better received then anyone else’s.”

 

Steve snorted.  In the year since he had awaken, he had found how much of a propaganda symbol he had become.  People spewing hate, holding signs demeaning others, telling the reporters “Cap wouldn’t approve.”  What would they say that the name they loved to drop was in love with a male teenager?

 

“C’mon, Stebe.  Do ‘t fr’ meee?” Tony slurred from between them.  He had been out from his painkillers for several hours.

 

Steve took one look at the rumpled genius, nasal cannula and stitches and glassy eyes.  “Okay.  Fine.”

 

Like he could deny Tony anything.

 

 

 

The appearance would be small.  Short and to the point.  It had been scheduled for the morning that Tony would be discharged, to divert some of the attention.  Steve tried not to be disappointed he would not get to escort Tony home from the hospital.

 

He would be doing his piece from one of the offices in Stark Tower that were filled with leather-bound books, for the sole purpose of charade.  Some bright spark had decided to add an American flag (because Steve refused to wear the Cap uniform), so combining the setting and his ‘40’s dress uniform, he felt like a modern political candidate announcing his run for office.

 

He ran a finger over the bindings of the books while the technicians adjusted the lighting.  They were all hollow wooden forms.  Not a page in sight aside from the producer’s notes.

 

“Captain?  We’re ready for you,” one of the makeup girls simpered.  He thought about it, while squashed into the beautician’s chair, that there was no way three girls were needed to fix him up for the camera.  Especially how all three were consciously shoving their cleavage in his face.

 

He had never been happier to step in front of a camera.

 

The producer counted down, gesticulating to the screen holding the cropped images of two nigh-on elderly white men.  He host, and Senator Stern, one of the Avengers most vocal opponents.  There red light was blinking, a fuzzy mic was dangling a few inches out of the shot.  The host was introducing him. 

 

“- very special guest, Senator.   Here to defend Tony Stark’s position on the Avengers, Captain America himself!”

 

The producer pointed at him needlessly.  He smiled and waved at the piped in cheers, face pulled taunt, felling like a grimace.  His face took up a third of the plasma screen, right in the middle.  He usually insisted on being called Steve Rogers as opposed to Captain America, but America didn’t need to know how Steve Rogers felt about Tony Stark, just what Captain America felt about Iron Man.

 

“Good morning, Captain, and I’ve got to say what an honor it is to have you on our show.”

 

“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine,” he found himself responding robotically.  He could hear Tony whispering in his ear _Captain America, you filthily liar._   His smile lessened a millimeter of tension.

 

“We were wondering if you could give us any info on Stark’s condition?”

 

“Well, he’s refusing hospital fare and is forcing us to smuggle in outside food, so nothing out of character,” _Smile.  Crack a soft joke.  Makes you seem approachable the way those assholes aren’t._   “Tony’s good.  He’ll be home soon-“ _Now._ “so I feel confident to say he’s sufficiently recovered.”

 

“It was a pretty nasty fall.”

 

“Yes.”

 

_Make THEM the awkward ones._

 

The host cleared his throat.  “Anything lasting?”

 

“He got some stitches, but I don’t think that’s what you mean.  His mind is unaffected, thank you.  After he heals, he’ll be right back in the suit.  Probably before, too.”

 

Stern, the smug asshole, decided to cut in.  “Captain, we’re not implying Stark’s genius, we’re simply saying that, at his age-“

 

“He’s not capable of going to war?  Congress was fine when it was bombs and missiles Tony was creating when he was in the throes of puberty and grief.  Isn’t he now at an age where you’re supposed to make the decisions as to what you want to do with your life?  Are you upset he’s not doing what you want?”

 

Stern frowned.  “Captain, eighteen year-olds are choosing colleges, not fighting aliens and monsters.”

 

“Who’s going to?  Surely not you.”  Steve knew he was overstepping the line, but he was so tired of how they treated Tony, like some bratty toddler instead of a mind that could tie them in knots.

 

Stern smiled, like he had his ace in the hole.  “Tony Stark is unstable, volatile.  He thinks that because he can create something, it is his sole weapon to control.  He refuses to corporate.”

 

“That’s the Tony we all love.”

 

Some of us more so than others, Steve though blearily.

 

 

 

“Well, that could have gone better,” Pepper uttered as greeting when Steve had finally made his way up to Tony’s penthouse.

 

“Sorry,” Steve shrugged off his jacket and moved to hang it on a coat hook that wasn’t there.

 

“Don’t worry, things can always go better where the media is concerned,” Pepper supplied, taking his jacket, smoothing out a crease, and laying it over the top of one of the low couches.  “You’re creating discussion, which is the important part.  You believe in Tony, which will convince others to think on it.  He’s already beloved by the under-30’s, and seeing the pinnacle of the American Dream against the head of America Bureaucracy will convince others.  You did well considering, Steve.”  She patted his arm.  “Now, Tony’s in bed.  Gave him his painkillers as soon as we got him up here.  I’ve put off some things for long enough, and I would appreciate if you could-“

 

“We’ll look after him, I promise.”

 

Pepper looked like he had lifted a tremendous weight off her chest.  “Thank God.  I know I’m not his guardian anymore, but I still feel obligated-“

 

“Pepper,” Steve grabbed her shoulders and forced her to hold his gaze.  “You’ve been with Tony through some of the worst times of his life.  There’s nothing wrong with feeling responsible for him.  I just hope you realize that you don’t have to do it alone, anymore.  You said it yourself, we’re his family.  We’ll take care of him.”

 

“Of course.  Family.”  She smiled pityingly. 

 

She knew then.  Damn Natasha.

 

“Well,” she shrugged his hands off her shoulders and moved to a mountain of pamphlets and paper instructions on the coffee table.  “Seeing as you will be taking over primary care, you should be the one to peruse the doctor’s orders.”

 

He groaned.

 

 

 

“Fancy seeing you here,” a voice interrupted, hazy with sleep.  Steve looked up from a packet on the caring of stitches to see a fuzzy, bedhead ridden Tony, grinning lazily at him.

 

“You’re up.  Good.  How are you feeling?”

 

“Like shit.”

 

“Understandable.”

 

They looked at one another for a full five seconds before dissolving into laughter.

 

“Ow.  _Ow_.  Fuck,” Tony hissed, grabbing at his shoulder, where a line of neat blue plastic ran through his skin.

 

“Need pills?”

 

“The, uh, lesser ones.  Yeah.”

 

Steve gave Tony the painkillers and a glass of water, also thinking to grab one of his numerous tablets and the stack of papers Pepper had left with SI letterhead.  Tony snatched the tablet but wrinkled his nose at the paperwork.

 

Adorable.

 

And because he had a death wish: “Want me to check over your stitches?”

 

He hesitated for a moment, but soon enough Tony threw back the covers to reveal the entre expanse of his thinly muscled chest.  Light olive skin, with the arc reactor set dead-center between his vaguely defined pectorals.  Tiny coffee-colored nipples and the still-developing muscles of a teenager.  A wide, deep belly button, covered in the start of the trail of wiry black hair that moved under the band of his pajama pants, slung low over his hips.

 

Steve didn’t know whether to cover him, draw him, or lick him.

 

He breathed heavily, trying to steady himself and not allow _anything_ to stick out.  Tony seemed disappointed for some reason, pulling the duvet up to cover everything below the reactor, clutching a handful of fisted cloth over the device itself, unnaturally quiet while Steve checked his stitches.

 

“They look good.  Need anything else?”

 

Tony opened his mouth, like he was going to say something, but decided against it, closing his mouth and shaking his head.

 

As Steve turned to go, Tony’s voice flowed over his shoulder.

 

“You don’t need to treat me like I’m your kid, Cap.”

 

He paused.  “I don’t see you as my kid, Tony.”

 

A snort.  “Sure you do.”

 

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

 

In his head, he knew Tony _was_ still a kid.  Suffering from shell shock and whatever emotional abuse Howard had managed to put him through. 

 

But even with that, Tony somehow rose above it all to become extraordinary.

 

He was a teammate, a genius, and a friend.  He was terribly mature for his age.  Tony was Iron Man, not Iron Boy.

 

Despite everything, there still stood an age difference of ten or seventy-six years, depending on your calculation.

 

But his heart was telling him not to listen.

 

Even if he wasn’t what Tony needed. 

 

He still wanted.  God, he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, shortish update. It'll get good next chapter, I promise . . . . *masturbation* Who said that?


	4. My Thoughts, I Confess, Verge On Dirty

When Steve woke early the next morning from a very unrestful sleep, he got it into his head to make chicken noodle soup from his mother’s recipe.  Something that had always soothed him when he was young and bedridden, and was pretty cheap and stored well.  He took his time, boiling the chicken to make the broth from scratch, and finished it around noon, so he ladled out two bowls and placed them on a tray, and headed towards Tony’s room, leaving Clint to fish out the chicken chunks like he always did.

 

He knew something was wrong the moment he walked in, and heard Tony grunt as he white-knuckled his sheets.  Steve put the tray down on a dresser, and rushed to Tony’s bedside.

 

Tony had his teeth gritted, clenching his fists into his sheets and the red fleece sleep pants he was wearing, tablet lying forgotten by his knees.

 

“Do you need your meds?”

 

A nod.

 

“Where?”

 

Tony flicked a wrist vaguely to his right.

 

“The nightstand?”

 

“No, no!  Bathroom!” Tony gasped, but not before Steve had seen the contents of the drawer.

 

Steve pushed _that_ to the back of his mind, running to the _en suite_ , and returning with the pill bottle and a glass of water.  He fumbled with the cap, finally getting it off and pouring the prescribed two pills into Tony’s waiting palm.  He gulped them down dry.

 

Steve sat at the edge of Tony’s bed, listening to his still-shaky breathing but resolutely not looking at him.  Once Tony’s breath had evened out a little, Steve spoke robotically:

 

“I thought you couldn’t buy marital aids until you were twenty-one.”

 

Tony snorted.  “Since when has age ever stopped me?”  His tone was condescending, but Steve could hear both embarrassed and miserable beneath the bravado.  Like he had been caught.

 

“Tony-“

 

“I don’t wanna hear it, Steve,” Tony said harshly, curling in on himself.  “Just ‘cause you’re immune to certain biological urges doesn’t mean we all are.”

 

Steve sat there, staring at the curls of steam issuing from the still piping-hot soup.  “Who said I was immune?”

 

Tony snorted.  “Oh, yeah.  Like Captain America jerks off.”  He stopped, side eyeing Steve.  “Uh, right?”

 

“Tony, I have elevated testosterone levels from the serum.  I’m pretty sure I have a higher sex drive than most men, at any age.”

 

Tony’s mouth had fallen open into a perfect little “O”, but he quickly snapped his mouth shut and stared over at the soup.  “So you _do_ masturbate?”

 

“Frequently.  Daily, when other things aren’t pressing.”  _Like you being in the hospital._

 

Tony nodded numbly, still staring at the forgotten tray like it held the secrets of the universe.  He swallowed audibly, Adam’s apple moving in a tantalizing fashion.  Steve had to restrain himself from covering it with his mouth.

 

“So,” Tony croaked.  “S'at lunch for me, or did you bring it up here to make me watch you eat everything as usual?”

 

Steve managed a hollow laugh, and went to fetch the tray.

 

 

 

The tension seemed to ease a bit after that.  Steve set the tray down next to Tony and held his own bowl and quickly demolished his meal.  Tony immediately went about slowly picking out the noodles, chicken, and vegetables and laying them on a napkin, the liquid pooling in gullies in the paper.  Steve considered complaining, until Tony meekly asked for a straw, and Steve realized Tony probably wasn’t having a very good track record with solid food right now.

 

“I threw up so bad after you guys brought me those burgers and cheesecake,” Tony mumbled around his straw.  “The hospital people put me on liquids after that.  Said I could start eating solids after I got home, but my meds are making me nauseous.  And I don’t trust myself to be able to get to the toilet before I hurl.”

 

“If you want, I can stay with you for a few hours, and carry you if you need it,” Steve offered.

 

“Only if you promise to hold my hair,” Tony smiled so openly it made Steve’s intestines curl.  “But nah, maybe tomorrow.  Good idea, soup.  Could you maybe . . . ?”

 

“Would you try eating solids if I made beef stew tomorrow?  Or I could use oxtails, or veal, or lamb?”

 

Tony threw back his head and moaned obscenely, adding to Steve’s mental catalogue he would _most definitely_ be using later.  “Laaamb.  Oh, my God, lamb.  I haven’t had lamb in ages.  Could you get mint jelly?”  Steve nodded.  “I fucking love you.  And what the hell are oxtails?”

 

Steve ignored the way the bottom of his stomach dropped out when Tony said “I fucking love you,” and focused on dragging his spoon along the bottom of the bowl and ribbing him.  “Don’t tell me the great Tony Stark is admitting to not knowing something?”

 

“Steeeeve,” Tony whined, “s’not _funny._ I don’t know your weird Irish food.  Sue me.”

 

“My lawyers are no match for yours.  And oxtails are what they sound like: the tails of oxen.  You boil them, and the beef falls right off the bone.  They’re really fatty, but that muscle is never used, so it’s tender.  You pull out the bones and skim the fat, and add potatoes and carrots.  Done.”

 

“Mmmm,” Tony mumbled around a finger as he sucked the last of the broth off of it.  “Gotta try that sometime.  But you promised me lamb, and lamb I shall receive.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Steve agreed vacantly, staring at the slender finger being sucked harshly by its owner.  He nearly bent his spoon in half.  He snapped himself out of it.  “Well, if you’re done,” Steve said, rising quickly and holding the tray in front of him so Tony wouldn’t be able to see anything.

 

Tony surrendered his bowl without complaint, burrowing down into his sheets, blinking sleepily.  “JARVIS, lights.  Wake me when it’s time for my next dose.”  The blackout windows activated, and the light gradually faded to a soft golden glow about the edges of the room.  “Thanks, Steve.”

 

Steve stood in the doorway, watching Tony settle himself.  Fragile, yet still so resilient. 

 

“Never a problem, Tony.  Get some sleep.  Call if you need anything.”

 

There he left him; the object of all of his affections dozing peacefully was he walked away with a heavy heart and a hard-on.

 

 

 

He quickly dumped the tray and the dirty bowls in the kitchen (all of the chicken chunks were gone), and moved purposefully back to the elevator, leaning against the mirrored wall and pressing a palm over the hard outline out his cock through his sweatpants.

 

Steve’s mind was filled with the memory of what he had seen in that drawer: a crimson vibrator and a half-used bottle of lube.

 

The mere thought of Tony masturbating had nearly scrambled his brain.  Of course, it had to be true; he was still a teenager, even if he was of the age of majority.  While he had been through so much, it shouldn’t have affected his sex drive.  Now that Steve was thinking about it (read: couldn’t remove that thought from his head), it made sense; if his own experience was anything to go by, some alone time was a better stress reliever than most anything else he could do.  He could hammer on all the bags he wanted, but at the end of the day, the only thing that could loosen the tightness in his shoulders was having a hand around himself.

 

But knowing the same was true for Tony was a million times worse than only wishing or suspecting.

 

When the door pinged for his floor, Steve speed-limped to his bedroom.  He was in no mood to fool around, so the really ripped his shirt off in his haste to get it off, and kicked his sweatpants gracelessly to the edge of the bed.  He usually made sure to get stuff into the hamper (something years of living surrounded closely by others had ingrained in him), but as he yanked his boxer-briefs around his straining cock, he laughed deliriously at the notion that no one could walk in on him.

 

He threw himself on the bed with no further fuss, still wearing his sweatsocks.  He allowed himself the luxury of a groan as he palmed himself, fingers of his left hand tracing the planes of his chest lightly as the other hand played at the sensitive skin of his cock.  A sharp hiss issued from his lips as he ran his middle finger teasingly over the head, tracing the slit.

 

This is how it would be with Tony, Steve could tell.  Soft, tender touches that shook him to the core, skating across overheated skin and pulling him out, stretching him out like taffy, but in such a good way.  He would never return to this coiled tension that he had carried ever since puberty, multiplied by ten since the serum had made him so much more sensitive and _ready_ for it. 

 

Tony would be so good.  And he would be Tony, not the Tony Stark.  He wouldn’t be compelled to act or be something other than himself.  The only expectation Steve ever had for Tony was for him to be himself.  Tony would be himself, all that focused energy on _him_ , chasing release and seeking _something_ , _something_ neither of them had ever had.  Something close, staring into each other’s eyes as they sought something tentative and sweet and strong and _worth it_.

 

Worth everything.

 

Steve groaned loudly as he pressed along his length, fingers moving fast, spreading the translucent drops of precome around to lessen the friction.

 

He kept fisting his erection as he moved to lean and pull his own bottle of lube from his bedside table.  He opened it one-handed, and poured a moderate amount into his navel.  He allowed his fingers to trace up and dip into the slick, relieved at the slow loss of raw friction.

 

He pressed his thumb into the slit firmly, allowing himself a tweak of a nipple before he stuck his left pinkie in his mouth, biting harshly to muffle the obscene sounds he was making.

 

He jolted harshly when he recalled the moan Tony had issued earlier, a burst of precome coming suddenly.  He tasted a taste of metal.  The metal of bullet casings, the metallic taste of blood.  Copper.  No, iron.  Always iron.  Iron.

 

“Tony,” he whimpered around his bloody finger.

 

He allowed his mind to drift to that bright red vibrator, so seemingly innocent if you had no idea to what it was intended for.  A harsh breath came from his powerful lungs.

 

The thought of where it was supposed to _go_.

 

Steve had never been more jealous of an inanimate hunk of plastic.

 

Tony lying on his stomach, no, back, _panting_ as he moved the device within himself, whimpering and crying out.  A slick column of red moving between well-muscled cheeks.

 

Sweat dripping down his face, making his skin glow gold, forcing him to close his eyes to avoid the salty burn from stinging.

 

Biting his lips between moans, licking irritated skin and huffing out strained breaths.

 

The sharp blue glow of the arc reactor seeming to glow brighter as he climbed.

 

Sweaty hair, damp eyelashes splitting, cognac eyes dilated as he teetered on the edge.

 

Glimpsing the secrets of the universe as he dissolved, a name on his helpless lips: _“Steve.”_

 

“Augh, _Tony!”_

 

The letdown never as sweet as the buildup.

 

Steve stared at the ceiling, feeling the splatter of his release cool on his chest and the sharpening sting of the bite marks on his finger.

 

There was no Tony here.  Tony was twelve feet directly above him in a drug-induced slumber. 

 

Steve was alone.  Just alone as he had been for his entire life, if he thought about it.

 

He stood up, heavy limbs and heavier heart, moving toward his bathroom to wash the semen off his chest and the sweat from his body and the blood off his hand and remove the taste of iron from his mouth and allow his tears to fall without staining his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Gingerly places this here* Perhaps I have some issues . . . .
> 
> Oh well.
> 
> Comments make my world go round.


	5. Sing This Like Our Fathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Natasha tells Steve some pretty difficult stuff about her past. Nothing graphic, and very short, but if you are sensitive to discussions about past rape, please heed caution.

Steve was just finishing dicing the lamb when Tony wandered into the kitchen.

 

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty arises!” Clint cawed from his perch on the counter.  Natasha glared at him from the table, where she had her chair up on two legs, her own legs balanced on the ledge.  They were both wearing stealth uniforms, as they were headed out on some top secret mission.

 

Bruce had gotten a last-minute call to talk at a genetics conference that morning, and was packing his bags.  Thor had declared that it had been too long since he had seen Jane, and had disappeared in a clap of thunder.  Now Clint and Natasha had taken an assignment to some mission.  All very convenient.

 

“I wish you all the luck in taking care of our dear Anthony!” Thor had shouted hurriedly over his shoulder as he headed for the roof.

 

Very, very convenient.

 

“Why’re you leaving?” Tony yawned, rubbing his eyes with the back of a hand.  He was wearing an oversized, faded red sweatshirt, grey sweatpants, and violently purple socks.  His hair was sticking up in all directions, a sleepy, disgruntled look on his face.  Or that’s what he would have called it.  Anyone else would have said he was pouting.

 

Adorable.  And Steve needed to stop thinking of him that way.

 

“Got an assignment.”  Bullshit, they _volunteered_.  “We’ll be gone for a few days.  Thor left earlier-“

 

“Could tell by the thunder-and-lightning shtick.”

 

“And Bruce is headed out to a conference.  Just you and Steve to hold down the fort.”  Nat gave him a dirty look.

 

Tony, on the other hand looked surprised – _hopeful?_ – and turned towards Steve.  “You’re staying with me?”

 

Steve smiled weakly into the bubbling pot.  “Someone’s got to.”

 

 

 

He didn’t pay much attention to the discussion that evolved.  Bruce came in a few moments after Tony, and seated himself at the table with the others.  Natasha procured tea for the two of them, and powdered hot chocolate for Tony, as he wasn’t supposed to be having caffeine.  He whined at the powdery substance, and Steve had to hold himself back from pulling out another pot and showing Tony how good _his_ homemade cocoa was.  Clint just sat on the counter, throwing cheese popcorn into the air for himself to catch with his mouth.  He never missed.

 

They were going through the traditional team banter, and after a few failed attempts at pulling Steve into the conversation, they gave up and accepted he was out of it.

 

Not out of it enough to not notice every time Tony laughed.  He would jerk up then, trying vainly to stifle the frigid spike of jealousy that someone else was making Tony happy.  It was an unhealthy attitude.  Clint would smirk at him every time.

 

“Wellll, this has been fun, but I gotta go stock up on my arrows for the trip,”  Clint said an hour later, jumping off the counter.  He cut around to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.  When the others turned away, he crept up behind Steve and hissed, “Have _fun_ with your boy toy and his . . . toys.”

 

“BARTON!” but Clint was already fleeing the room, running and cackling madly.

 

The other three stared after him.  Tony looked confused, Bruce looked resigned, and Natasha had a tightly fond smile.

 

“Hey, Tony, could you look over my notes for my speech?” Bruce asked.  The man had a gift for distraction.

 

Tony got up with a groan, complaining that he wasn’t a biologist, and neither was Bruce, so why the hell was he doing this?  Bruce followed in Tony’s slipstream, but not before trading a significant glance with Natasha.

 

“You’re trying to set us up,” Steve guessed when it was just the two of them left in the kitchen.

 

Nat blinked innocently, which always meant she was most definitely up to something.  “What on Earth?  Heavens, no.  But look at that, you and Tony are going to be _completely alone_ together.  I would suggest you take advantage of that while you can.”

 

A pair of bay leaves hit the broth, and Steve’s face was glowing red.  “Stop it.  Stop trying to make it happen.”

 

She let her chair fall with a thunk, and leaned forward on her forearms.  Even from across the room, her gaze made him shiver.  “You’re leaving us little choice.”

 

“Natasha,” he pleaded.  “Stop trying to force this.”

 

Her eyebrows were going to bury themselves in her hairline, he was sure.  “So does this mean you’re going to get off your ass and _do_ something about this . . . thing between you two?”

 

“No,” he said resolutely.  She didn’t need to know his insides were quivering and curling.

 

Natasha sighed, picked up the three empty mugs, and walked over to place them in the sink.  She then draped an arm around his slumped shoulders.  “Why do you keep trying to talk yourself out of this?”

 

“I’d – I’m no _good_ for him.  He – he needs someone his own age – I’m too old-“

 

“My first time was with a man who had kidnapped me from my parents and had brainwashed me into thinking _he_ was my father-figure.  I was eleven, and he held me down and _raped_ me, and expected me to be _grateful_ afterwards.  For years, sex was a tool to me; the first time I was assigned a target on American soil I _laughed_ when I heard a woman say ‘My body is a temple’.  And then,” she sighed, and “Clint” went unsaid.  “I was being taught that sex was supposed to be something _intimate_ , was something _special_ between people who cared for each other.  It wasn’t supposed to _hurt_.”

 

She pulled a knife from her belt, cut off some fresh chives and parsley from the tiny herb pots that Bruce kept on the window sill, and began brutally chopping them fine, so fine they almost became paste.  “Tony’s going to be the guy who sleeps around to try and find some sort of intimacy.  The only reason he hasn’t already is because of all he’s been through in the past few years and all of the responsibilities he has.  But mark my words,” she fixed him with a glare so intense he felt two inches tall.  “I _will not_ let him go through that hurt if I can prevent it.  I will not hesitate to kill to prevent that from happening.  I am _deadly_ serious.”

 

“Natasha-“

 

“I do _not_ want to hear your excuses.  _You_ are his opportunity to stop that from happening.  _You_ care for him, _you_ would never hurt him, _you_ would never let him feel like he is someone unworthy of love and affection.  _Real_ intimacy.”

 

She held out the cutting board, he took it numbly, moving to spoon the herbal paste into the pot.  She pulled a dishrag off a hook by the sink, and wiped down her knife efficiently.  “Now,” she said, her tone back to one of normal conversation.  “I am going to find Clint, get him to stop dicking around with his arrows, find Bruce, and the three of us are going to exit the Tower.  None of us should be back for at least three days.  If, by the time I return, you two are not at least past the first kiss stage, I will spend untold hours hacking JARVIS to get the audio of the two of you masturbating thinking about each other, and will play it on the speaker system until you do pass the first kiss stage.”

 

_“I am bound to act in Sir’s best interests, and my data concludes that a romantic relationship between Sir and Captain Rogers would be in Sir’s best interests.  You would receive little resistance from me.”_

 

“Thank you, JARVIS,” she smiled at the ceiling, before turning back to Steve.  “Am I clear?”

 

“ _Natasha_ -“

 

“Good.  See you in a few days.”  She smiled and left the kitchen.

 

 

 

It was quiet after that.  Steve stirred the stew, scraping the sides of the pot every few moments for something to do.  Tony dozed on the couch in the other room, sniffing occasionally and going through digital paperwork when he wasn’t.  It was relatively peaceful.

 

Except for the tension that was thrumming underneath Steve’s skin.  Being alone with Tony had never been a hardship before.  Before his realization, he had enjoyed that time immensely, the hours he had spent simply hanging out with Tony.  Sitting with Tony in his workshop, listening to Tony as he babbled about his inventions, bringing food to Tony so he didn’t starve.

 

Tony, Tony, Tony.  He should have realized the trend sooner.

 

Now, it was nearly unbearable.  It was one thing to spend time with Tony when everyone else was there, but knowing they were alone, knowing the others had left for the _express purpose_ of leaving them to . . . well.  Steve wanted to punch something.

 

No, no, he didn’t.  He _wanted_ to march into the living room, hoist Tony up onto a shoulder, and take him off to a bedroom.  Where preferably they would remove clothing and Steve would be able to touch as much of Tony’s skin as he wanted.  And have Tony touch him.

 

Bad train of thought.  Best think of something else.  Anything else.

 

“Soup’s on,” he shouted to Tony.

 

“Thought it was stew,” Tony retorted, stumbling in to sit down.  He plopped himself into one of the aluminum barstools affixed to the floor, spinning it slightly.

 

Steve pulled down two wide, shallow soup bowls, and ladled out two servings of the stew.  He placed it in front of Tony with a flourish.  “Wait,” he moved over to Bruce’s herb garden, coming back with a solitary mint leaf, which he placed carefully on the center of Tony’s stew.  “Sorry.  Not jelly, but it’s mint.”

 

Tony’s eyes were soft as he looked at his meal.  “It’s perfect, Steve.”  He grabbed a spoon and shoved some stew in his mouth and moaned.

 

“Good?” Steve grinned.

 

“ _So_ good.  It’s been _ages_ since I had lamb.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Mmm, Jarvis – the human Jarvis – used to make lamb and veal a lot.  Never stew, but it was always nicely grilled or fried.  Served with chunky vegetables, which I would always complain about, until he let me have mashed potatoes.  And he always made them, so I always knew he would let me have them if I whined enough.”  Tony’s slightly nostalgic smile slipped somewhat.  “I haven’t had lamb since he died.”

 

Jarvis had been driving the car when Howard, Maria, and he had been killed.  Something about the report was sketchy, as Steve had been denied the request to read it.  But if he pushed, all vital information would probably be blacked out anyway.

 

The media reports had implied that it was Jarvis’ reckless driving that had killed Howard and Maria.  But Tony barely spoke of them, and had named one of his favorite creations after the butler.  It was telling.

 

“You miss him?”

 

Tony stared at his plate.  “Yeah.  He was always the one I could – you know – go to.  He was always taking care of me when I was home, and looking out for me, speaking up on my behalf to Dad.”

 

And they had reached Howard.  Steve and Tony both quickly began shoveling the stew in their faces.  After a few moments, Tony cleared his throat:

 

“Have I ever told you?  If you weren’t frozen, Howard probably would have tried to make you my godfather.  I used to be so proud.  Godson of Captain America.”  He snorted and harshly pulled the toe of his purple sock.  “Now I think it’s just because you’re one of the only people who would have called him a friend.”

 

Steve let his spoon fall into his empty bowl.  “Tony, I’m sorry.”

 

“What’re you sorry for?  Not like you could have prevented getting frozen.  Not like you could have made Howard be a better father.”  He was still pulling on the toe of his sock, probably irreparably stretching the seam out.

 

“I could have been there for you.”

 

Tony froze, and looked up slowly, cognac eyes wide and whiskey-bright.  There was something in the air, making it thicken.  Steve would have said congealed, but it was too hot.  _Caramelized_ , he thought dizzily. 

 

Was Tony getting closer?  His eyelashes were fluttering shut.  “But you’re here now.”

 

_Oh GOD, it’s happening._

 

They were still a foot away when JARIVS interrupted.  _“I am terribly sorry, Sir, but you requested I notify you when it was time for your next dosage.  Sir.”_ The IA sounded incredibly apologetic.

 

“Uh, thanks JARVIS,” Tony said hurriedly, and the thick air cooled suddenly, and the spell broke.

 

Steve jumped up, grabbing their empty bowls and heading over to the sink to put them to soak.

 

“Well, they say to take some of them with food, so now’s a good time as any,” Tony yawned, starching his arms over his head, sweatshirt riding up to show-

 

China shattered, shards pinging off the tile, droplets of stew coving the spotless floor.  Tony jumped back, letting his stomach be covered by the thick fabric, but not before the image of tanned, lightly-defined abs, covered in a bit of wiry black hair embedded itself in Steve's corneas.

 

“-eve?  Earth to Cap?” Tony waved a hand.  “Something wrong?  I know you got better reflexes than that.”

 

He did, when he wasn’t lusting after his friend.  Teenager.  Son of a friend.  Injured.  _Teenager._

 

Somehow, the excuses weren’t cutting it anymore.  They were just that: excuses.

 

“Steve?” Tony looked at him for a long moment; Steve was still staring at the front of Tony’s sweatshirt.  “Oh.  _Oh._   Well,” a wicked grin crossed Tony’s face.  “Got things to work out.  Problems.  See ya, Steve.”

 

Tony quickly turned heel, sliding out of the kitchen with a distinctive sway to his hips.

 

Steve ran a hand across his face.

 

He was _so_ going to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve, you have a mighty need to take care of that boy. Yes, you do. Stop denying it.
> 
> And watching Agent Carter has been giving me Jarvis feels. Forgive me.
> 
> Comments are love.


	6. Sounded Sad Upon the Radio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this gets dangerously close to song fic. I wouldn't consider it one, but music plays a big part.

He was most _definitely_ going to hell.

 

Fury called him in for some meeting that afternoon, so Steve left JARVIS instructions to let Tony sleep.  He argued with himself over it, but ended up making a chicken salad sandwich for Tony, and put that and a thermos filled with hot broth on a tray, which he placed at Tony’s bedside with a note telling him where he would be and to call if he needed anything.  Steve also doodled a little comic of “Cyclops” chewing “Patriot” out.

 

He needed to stop this, he thought as he tucked the orange Post-It and scrap of multimedia paper lovingly beneath the plate.  He needed to stop thinking of Tony this way; he needed to give up on the faint hope that he could be something more than a friend in Tony’s life. 

 

Steve couldn’t stop his fingers from smoothing back the hair from Tony’s forehead.  It was a smidgen too long; he would need to get it cut soon.

 

It ached his heart to see Tony like this.  He had gone down to Tony’s workshop countless times to find him slung carelessly over the couch, limbs cluttered and mouth gaping, still covered in motor oil and WD-40. 

 

Tony hunkered down in bed was different.  He was curled nearly into a ball, comforter bunched around his shoulders and neck, making only his head and a loosely-clenched fist visible.  His mouth was open, soft and red, but it was really only parted lips which let out tiny puffs of breath every few moments.  His hair was a tousled mess, and his face was relaxed, premature age lines only hinted at.

 

Steve knew that, if he were so bold, if he climbed into bed with him, Tony would sigh little contented noises and cuddle close into his arms.  He didn’t even want to _sleep_ with Tony right now, just sleep, curled around the genius’s warm body.

 

And Tony might even let him.  And when they woke up . . . .

 

His fingers twitched towards the bedside drawer.

 

 _Don’t even go there_.

 

He fled the room before he could throw his reservations out the window and crawl in anyway.

 

 

 

The meeting, of course, ran over, because it was Fury.  Steve nearly broke the armrests on his chair clenching his fists to keep from punching the man.  Fury still thought that the Avengers were still under his jurisdiction, despite the fact that they were self-funded and Clint and Natasha were the only ones in SHEILD’s employ, and on a contractual basis at that.  And of course, Fury had to spend four hours ragging on Tony. 

 

Steve finally snapped, told Fury where he could shove his regulations (like they could even _make_ regulations for superheroes), and stormed out.  He wasn’t terrified of the ramifications.  Fury needed them far more than they needed Fury.

 

He fumed all the way back to the Tower, driving even more recklessly than usual.  He jabbed the button for the common floor too harshly, and was intent on storming to the kitchen to reheat some stew for himself.

 

He was thrown for a loop, though, seeming Tony’s nearly-naked form sprawled across the couch.  He was fast asleep, positioned much like Rose from _Titanic_.  The only clothes he wore were a pair of sweatpants, the ones he had been wearing at lunch, but slung _much_ lower down his hips, revealing the line of juncture of his hip and more of that mouth-watering dark, soft hair covering his lower abs.  The arc reactor took pride of place, painting Tony glowing blue in the long evening shadows crossing the room.

 

Like some sort of classical god of sleeping beauty.

 

There was some story, Steve knew, of the moon goddess Selene falling in love with a mortal shepherd.  She asked for him to be granted eternal sleep, and visited him every night, as he dreamed he held the moon in his arms.

 

How lucky for her.

 

“Tony,” Steve called lowly, bending down to gently jostle his uninjured shoulder.  “You should be sleeping in your bed.”

 

Tony stretched and yawned, blinked impossibly wide, then smiled brilliantly up at him.  “Steve,” he murmured, sounding _so_ happy.

 

It was breaking his heart.

 

“Come on.  Bed.”  Tony made an interested noise.  “You’re going to fuck up your shoulder again.”

 

“Carry me,” he whined.

 

Too strung out to care about enforcing his self-imposed boundaries, Steve swung Tony into his arms bridal-style.  After an indignant squeak, Tony huddled closer.

 

“Missed you,” Tony breathed in his ear.

 

“Yeah,” Steve grunted through clenched teeth.

 

“Waited for you.”

 

“You didn’t need to.”

 

“Wanted to.”  Tony snuggled closer.  “Steve,” he sighed.

 

 

 

Steve hung his head against the tiled wall, water from the shower washing away all traces of orgasm.

 

He had taken Tony in to his doctors this morning, and Tony had insisted Steve be present in the room throughout checkup.  Tony had “accidentally” forgotten that he didn’t need to be completely nude to show the doctors his stitches.

 

Steve closed his eyes, letting the water make tiny rivers around his brows and nose.

 

He was beginning to wonder if Tony was doing it on purpose.

 

Last night, when Steve had been lowering Tony into his bed, he had clung close and asked Steve to stay.

 

“Nightmares.  I don’t wanna – “

 

Tony had tried to pull him into the bed with him, but Steve had resolutely sat on the floor, watching the door for any possible intruder.  He didn’t think of Tony sleeping soundly above him.

 

He most defiantly didn’t think about the red vibrator a foot from his right ear.

 

He was unrelentingly harsh, wound up in a way he didn’t understand, toweling off and pulling on his clothes.  He wanted to go to the gym, he wanted to punch something.  He wanted . . . .

 

Tony.  Of course

 

“Hey, Steve, you wanna do a Twentieth Century Music lesson?” he inquired from the doorway, wearing the now ubiquitous sweats – purple sweatshirt and black-and-white gears on the pants this time – holding a 45 album under his arm.

 

It had become something to do when there was spare time.  Steve had been quickly introduced to the basics of music over the past seventy years: Elvis, the Beatles, Motown, disco, hair bands, grunge, but he had wanted a more in-depth education.  His friends had risen to the challenge spectacularly.

 

Clint was a country fiend for some reason.  He liked a vast collection of things, but was always singing along to Johnny Cash or some other guy in a twangy voice.  He told Steve he had once had a banjo, but when Steve asked what had happened to it, Natasha had shouted from the kitchen “He is _not_ a deaf musical prodigy.  He should not be allowed within ten yards of a music store.” 

 

“So, what happened to it?” 

 

Clint had shrugged and simply said, “Natasha.”

 

Natasha had educated him on the songs produced about Vietnam and the Cold War.  She apparently adored the White Album, and Steve didn’t understand why until “Back in the USSR” came on and Clint had dropped his box of Froot Loops in a mad dash to dance with her.  She had shown him Billy Joel, saying he would love it, and started with The Nylon Curtain, and had teasingly changed his ringtone to the verse from “Allentown” that said “ _Well, our fathers fought the Second World War / Spent their weekends on the Jersey shore / Met our mothers in the USO / Asked them to dance / Danced with them slow_ ”.  He had gotten his revenge by changing her ringtone to “Leningrad”.

 

Everyone wanted to be there when he was introduced to Springsteen (except Thor, whose only taste in modern music was harsh rap, bubblegum pop, and ABBA), and Natasha had argued, but Bruce had eventually won the “privilege” of introducing him to a fellow Bruce.  He wasn’t much into popular music, but he had wanted to participate, and felt Steve would love Springsteen.  He was right, even if he had gotten tired of the chorus of “Born in the USA” being sung off-key every time he entered a room for the rest of the week.

 

“Don’t you realize it’s about a veteran coming home to a world that doesn’t accept him anymore?”

 

“Yeah, that’s why it’s perfect – _Come back home to tha’ refine-ary-ee-ee . . . .”_

 

But Tony had risen above the rest.  While the others had sat with him for half an hour, showing him YouTube videos of their favorites, Tony routinely tracked down the original albums, and would sit with Steve for hours, playing them and adding historical context, antecedents, commentary.  They watched documentaries on Woodstock and Candlestick Park.  They would sit for hours, playing the albums and taking, and talking and playing the albums.  Now, Steve was sure that was a large part in his falling in love with Tony, right up there with sitting in Tony’s workshop while Tony prattled on about his inventions.  The music lessons might have slightly more importance, because they taught Steve how wonderful it was to have all of Tony’s attention on him, no distractions or pretences.

 

“Well, what would be learning today?” Steve asked apprehensively.

 

It had been fine when he didn’t know he was in love with Tony.  But now, with songs about love and heartbreak gushing through the surround sound speakers, Steve wasn’t sure if he could handle it.

 

Well, maybe some heartbreak.  Where was Clint and his country now?

 

Tony wordlessly held the psychedelic cover out, and Steve had to bite back a curse.  Steely Dan.  He had been wanting to do that group for a while now.

 

“Steely Dan’s Can’t Buy a Thrill.  1972, but didn’t get very widespread until ’73.  First studio album, and rally the only one you need to listen to all the way through to get their feel.  Though, I need to get you to listen to ‘Peg’, for obvious reasons, and ‘Rikki Don’t Lose That Number’ should never be missed.  Well, do you wanna - ?”

 

“Lead the way,” Steve said, turning the album over to read the track listings.  “‘Peg’?”

 

Tony laughed.  “Yeah.  It’s _might_ be about a porn actress, but it’s sad how well it fits.”

 

“Why?”

 

Tony winced.  “Well, the chorus is _‘Peg, it will come back to you_.’”

 

“Oh.”

 

“If you don’t – “ Tony gesticulated awkwardly.

 

“Don’t worry, Tony.  If a song hurts, it means something.”  He paused for a moment.  “And she always remembers; it’s just kind of touch-and-go.”

 

Tony shifted awkwardly.

 

“There’s a line I love that says ‘ _Done up in blueprint blue / It sure looks good on you.’_   It just sounds . . . right.”

 

Imagining Tony wearing dark blue, outlined in white.  Steve shuttered and made a note to try drawing Tony in blue colored pencil.  He put the album under his arm and stepped into the elevator.

 

 

 

“Can I start on the B-side?  ‘Reelin’ in the Years’ is kind of my song,” Tony asked, sliding the wax disk out of the yellowed cardboard.

 

“Sure,” Steve settled into one of the couches in the media room.  He didn’t know why there was a separate media room, not when there were cinema-grade screens in pretty much everywhere, but here was the record player, and piles of albums that they had already listened to on the floor.

 

The media room had become “their” room, an even ground that neither had control over.  Tony’s workshop was that, Tony’s, and Steve always felt like a welcome guest, but not a native element of that environment.

 

The others had always avoided the room, but now Steve knew why.  It was their space, just for the two of them.

 

Tony put the record on, then began to move to the smooth guitar riff that oozed from the speakers.  The dance was slightly ridiculous, thrusting his hips and leaping about.  It was uniquely Tony, slightly idiotic, untamed, well thought out, and undeniably erotic.

 

_“Your everlasting summer_

_You can see it fading fast_

_So you grab a piece of something_

_That you think is gonna last_

_You wouldn't know a diamond_

_If you held it in your hand_

_The things you think are precious I can't understand_

 

 _“_ _Are you reelin' in the years?_

 _S_ _towin' away the time?_

_Are you gatherin' up the tears?_

_Have you had enough of mine?_

 

_“You been tellin' me you're a genius_

_Since you were seventeen_

_In all the time I've known you_

_I still don't know what you mean-“_

 

Steve bust out laughing.

 

“Told you it was my song!”

 

_“-  didn't turn out like you planned_

_The things that pass for knowledge I can't understand_

 

_“Are you reelin' in the years?_

_S_ _towin' away the time?_

_Are you gatherin' up the tears?_

_Have you had enough of mine?_

 

_“I spend a lot of money_

_And I spent a lot of time_

_The trip we made in Hollywood_

_Is etched upon my mind_

_After all the things we've done and seen_

_You find another man_

_The things you think are useless I can't understand_

 

_“Are you reelin' in the years?_

_Stowin' away the time?_

_Are you gatherin' up the tears?_

_Have you had enough of mine?”_  
 

 

Panting, Tony plopped down.  Steve, still chucking to cover up the hot custard feeling that was once again filling the air.  They let Tony regain his breath throughout “Fire In the Hole”, but when a slower, smoother sound filled with maracas and snare drum started up, Tony once again leapt up, this time holding out a hand.

 

“This song makes me think of you.  Come on, dance with me.”

 

Oh no.

 

“I can’t dance.”

 

“No one’s watching!”

 

“I don’t know-“

 

Tony wrapped slim fingers around his wrist and yanked him to his feet.

 

“Just dance with me, Steve,” Tony murmured into his ear.

 

And he was helpless to protest, and let Tony sway their bodies close together.

 

Tony whispered along with the lyrics:

 

_“A race of angels_

_Bound with one another_

_A dish of dollars_

_Laid out for all to see_

_A tower room at Eden Rock_

_His golf at noon for free_

_Brooklyn owes the charmer under me_

_Brooklyn owes the charmer under me_

 

_“His lady's aching_

_To bring a body down_

_She daily preaches_

_On where she wants to be_

_An evening with a movie queen_

_A face we all have seen_

_Brooklyn owes the charmer under me_

_Brooklyn owes the charmer under me_

 

_“A case of aces_

_Done up loose for dealing_

_A piece of island_

_Cooling in the sea_

_The whole of time we gain or lose_

_And power enough to choose_

_Brooklyn owes the charmer under me_

_Brooklyn owes the charmer under me_

_Brooklyn owes the charmer under me_

_Brooklyn owes the charmer under me”_

 

Upon the fadeout of the last notes, they stilled, yet remained plastered together.  Steve’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t want to open them for fear of the bitter sting of tears.  He just held Tony close, savoring the feeling of having him, warm and receptive in his arms.

 

He should drop his arms, move away, run from the room.

 

Steve didn’t move a muscle.

 

“Steve?” Tony asked when “Change of the Guard” started up.  Tony slid from his embrace.  Steve arms fell loose and wobbly at his sides; eyes still clenched shut as Tony moved over to the turntable to lift the needle.

 

_“All the signs are right this time_

_You don't have to try so very hard-“_

 

“Steve?” the fingers on his arm jolted him.

 

He _couldn’t_.

 

“Sorry, Tony,” Steve gasped.  “I gotta-“

 

“Where are you _going_?” Tony shouted, but Steve was already running.

 

Why, why, _why_ did the person he fell in love with have to be so accessible, yet so untouchable?

 

Standing in the motionless elevation, Steve ran shaking hands through his hair.

 

Why was Tony so forbidden?

 

Why did it have to be this way?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeping because "Brooklyn (Owes the Charmer Under Me)" http://m.youtube.com/index?&desktop_uri=%2F#/watch?v=OGYHLznFIOI must have been written for Steve and Tony, and "Peg" http://m.youtube.com/index?&desktop_uri=%2F#/watch?v=KUZnHlEUVvw is perfect for Steve reconnecting with Peggy after he wakes up, if you read it that way. Not the most popular Steely Dan songs, but both are gorgeous.
> 
> Comments are little gifts from above.


	7. These Things They Are Real and I Know How You Feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the confrontation! *dramatic music*
> 
> Sorry it's been a little longer than usual, I had to do an in-depth profile of Ho Chi Minh in like three days :(
> 
> This chapter is very dialogue heavy, but these things just needed to be said.

“Natasha,” Steve whined into the phone.  “Help.”

 

 _“What can I do to be of service?”_ came the sly reply.

 

Steve ran a hand through his hair.  “I don’t know.  Just . . . help.”

 

 _“It’s a little difficult to help when you don’t know what’s going on,”_ she replied calmly, belying the sound of gunfire in the background.

 

“Are you in the middle of a firefight?  Did you seriously take my call while you were in the middle of a firefight?”  He’s frustrated at himself, and he’s projecting those frustrations on her, but she should be able to figure that out.  Natasha, better than anyone else he knows, can read and understand the true makeup of a person, character and motives and wants.  It’s why she’s so good at whatever she decides to pursue.

 

She understands how people work.  He’s still learning.

 

Steve can figure out motives and desires in battle, can read an enemy’s playbook through their eyes.  He’s almost as good as Natasha in that respect, but when it leaves the cold world of calculation and enters the turbulent realm of emotion and heart, he’s still very lost.

 

 _“I am simply answering a call from a commanding officer.  Avengers’ business tops all others.”_ A male grunt of pain, then the thud of a body.  She continued as if nothing had happened.  _“Why_ are _you calling, Steve?”_  

 

There’s a smile in her voice, and he can picture it, Nat standing in a blank hall with florescent lighting, grinning and talking on the phone while the other hand holds a pistol, marching forward and stepping over unconscious bodies.  Or dead bodies, but she’s said the days of meaningless slaughter are behind her.  Depending on the seriousness of the threat.

 

“Ugh.  Nat, you know how people work.  And I – ugh.  I can’t do this.”

 

 _“Before you start on about how you don’t understand how people work let me inform you of two important points.  One, you always look at people hoping to see the best.  I’ve been trained to look for the worst.  Sad to say, the bad manifests itself far more often than the good.  It’s not your fault, and it’s defiantly not a bad thing.  Stop thinking that.  The world needs more idealists.  Two,”_ two gunshots near the receiver, and Steve can recognize their unique crack, because of course Natasha prefers to use the guns made for her by Tony, _“and far more importantly, you have a heart.  Emotions give you empathy, and empathy makes you more likely to pity.  When dealing with affairs of the heart, you’re more likely to get emotionally invested.”_

 

“Nat, please don’t go telling yourself you don’t have a heart.  That isn’t true in the slightest.”

 

 _“Thank you, Steve.”_   And she sounded genuinely touched.  _“But there was a time when I didn’t, a time where it felt like my limbic system had been removed.”_   She paused, and it was deadly quite on her end of the line.  _“They would have, if they’d been able to figure it out.  The love I had for my parents and my brother and my babushka was still there though, even if it dulled over time.  But what I’m trying to say is, I was indoctrinated to use no emotion.  I needed to exploit the emotions of others without reacting myself.  I can still call on that control if need be.  But you wear your heart on your sleeve.  Steve, you were originally used as a propaganda piece to inspire patriotic feeling.  You still are, if we’re being honest.  There’s a reason you and Tony take the frontline when we do press.”_   There was the buzz of her Widow’s Bites, and another male grunt of pain.  _“I can exploit emotion, but you can create it.”_

 

“Well, I’m the one being exploited.  They expect me to be ‘Captain America’ twenty four seven.  There’s this . . . pressure, to always live up to everyone’s expectations.  Not just of myself, but of the country as a whole.  And there are so many opinions on what a country should be.”

 

_“I was named after a propaganda piece too, you know.  But you became something that stood for the best of your county, while I was named after the vans that took people in the night.  Painted like bread trucks, to distract the starving mass that Stalin had wrapped around his fingers.”_

 

Steve really didn’t know what to say to that.

 

 _“So, how’s Tony?”_ she continued conversationally.

 

And now they reached the point of the call.

 

“He’s, uh, good.  Took him in to the doctor for a checkup this morning.  He’s doing fine, there’s no sign of infection, thank God.  Just needs more bed rest, mainly cause these painkillers are making him tired.  He’s up and about a bit more, though, but I’m trying to make sure he gets into bed before he’s out.”

 

_“Are you joining him?”_

 

“Damnit, Nat!”  He drives a fist into one of his couch cushions, because there’s not much else he can do to relive the hot, jolting _something_ without causing major monetary damage.  It was a combination of anger, jealousy, resentment, a million things he couldn’t name.  Hurt.  Hurt was one of them.  “It’s bad enough that . . . .”

 

_“Look, I know you’re having issues with accepting this.  But no one’s blaming you.  He’s pretty attractive, far as recently-legal teens go.”_

 

“Ugh, you’re making it worse,” Steve finger-combed his hair back, making it messier.

 

 _“You sound upset.  Have things come to a head while I’ve been away?”_   She sounded way too innocent for a woman who was killing people as they talked about Steve’s feelings.

 

“He’s – he’s figured it out,” Steve ran a hand along the side of his face, dragging it, before throwing the hand palm-up over his eyes and slumping into the couch.  “And he’s – he’s _teasing_ me.”

 

_“And you haven’t taken advantage of that?”_

 

“Nat!”  He sat up, scandalized.  “He’s playing with my emotions.  He’s not _serious_.”

 

_“If you could pull your head out of your ass for a few seconds’ worth of air, you would find that is not at all true.  But please, tell me.”_

 

“Tell you what,” he said dully, still trying to process the whole “not true” thing.

 

She sighed, like a long-suffering mother, and Steve heard the distinct sound of her punching a guy in the kidneys.  _“Tell me what he did to have you blubbering to mommy.”_

 

“I’m not _blubbering_ -“

 

“ _Steve.”_

 

“He’s sleeping out on the couch while he waits for me to come home.  He took off all his clothes in the doctor’s office, even though he _knew_ he didn’t need to.  Nat, he – he _danced_ with me.”

 

And the true weight of what they had done hit him.  He had _danced_ with Tony.  Something he had never done with _anyone_.  Before the serum, no one wanted to.  After the serum, there was a war on.  He had held out hope that once it was over, he could go dancing with Peggy, but he woke up in a world were dancing was nothing like he remembered and Peggy could barely walk.

 

_“He got you to dance? Wow.  I’m impressed.  What did you dance to?”_

 

“That’s not – that’s not the _point_ ,” he spluttered.

 

_“Humor me.”_

 

“Steely Dan.  ‘Brooklyn (Owes the Charmer Under Me)’,” he huffed.

 

_“Mmmm, don’t you that one.  Gotta look that one up.  Just a sec.”_

 

Steve was left to flail his arms helplessly as Natasha looked up the song on YouTube and hummed along.

 

 _“Well,”_ Nat said after five minutes, _“that’s really sweet.  I wouldn’t have pegged Tony such a closet romantic, but hey, he’s surprised me before.”_

 

“Natasha!”

 

 _“No, Steve,_ you _listen.  I’m sick of the two of you.  That song, as far as I can tell, ‘cause it’s Steely Dan and nothing they ever say has any clear meaning, is about how there’s a guy the singer knows who is such a good person, the_ universe _owes him something good.  That’s not something that sounds like teasing.”_

 

“He said it reminded him of me,” Steve sulked.

 

 _“Well, with the Brooklyn connotations, and just the whole subject matter, I can see why.  Hell, it reminds_ me _of you.  You’re a good person, Steve.  You’ve been miserable and alone for far too long.  You deserve some good things, some happiness, is what Tony’s saying through this.”_

 

“Oh.”

 

 _“_ _дерьмо_ _. Sorry.  Gotta cut this short.  Steve, just tell him how you feel.  I guarantee it’ll be fine, okay?  And where the_ hell _have you been?”_ trailed out.  She cut the connection just as Clint was saying, _“You handled yourself fine!_ _Didn’t need my help!”_

 

Steve just sat there, phone still pressed to his ear, slumped on the couch, staring at the wall.  He could imagine the pair’s squabbling, ringing around the sound of gunfire.

 

Natasha was convinced Tony felt similarly for him.

 

But she had been wrong about Tony before, right?  He was the only one who she had ever read incorrectly.  She could have done so again, misinterpreted Steve and Tony’s close friendship as attraction on both parts.  Seen their loving regard as actual love.

 

And Tony didn’t help.  Always seeking Steve out, dropping whatever he was doing to join Steve for lunch, prioritizing things Steve had asked from him over anything from SHEILD or SI.  .  Always sitting next to Steve in team meetings or on game and movie nights.  Smiling that brilliant smile, like Steve was making him so happy for just being there. 

 

But the thought, the _idea_ , that someone might have seen the potential between them filled him with, a fiery, restless longing.

 

It hurt, to think that.

 

He was wrenched from those horrid/wonderful thoughts by the ping of the elevator.

 

Tony, still in his pajamas, marched forward with his jaw set.  Steve opened his mouth, but Tony held up a hand for quiet.

 

“Look,” Tony spat.  “Don’t give me any of this ‘I’m supposed to be a role model,’ or ‘you’re Howard’s son’ bullshit.  You need stop caring about doing what people expect of you, and I’m not here as anyone other than Tony, Iron Man, your teammate, comrade-in-arms or whatever.  You treat me as an adult in everything.  Except this.

 

“You always tell people to take me seriously, that I’m smart enough to make my own decisions.  Why is the only thing you won’t let me figure out for my self is who I love?  ‘Cause it’s you, Steve.”

 

He just sat there, shock and awe and _what?_ rolling through him.  Tony didn’t stop talking.

 

“I get it, you’re older than me, _a lot_ older than me, but I’ve never really been surrounded by people my own age, so it makes sense that I’d fall for someone older, ya know?  And really, in actual years you’ve been conscious, you’re not _that_ much older, like ten years, but you can complain all you want, the only people you’re gonna get with shared life experience are dead or in geriatric care.  And I’m not gonna say that age is ‘just a number’, that’s so cliché and it defiantly does matter, but we’re not most cases, are we?

 

“You’re – Steve, you’re _here_ for me, whenever I need it.  You don’t get mad or frustrated at me when it’s something serious.  You’re _here_ , and I’m _happy_ when I’m with you, and I don’t really remember what it’s like to be content routinely since before we became the Avengers.  The others help, but it’s _you_ , you’re the center of us.  When I’m around you, I’m calm, I’m happy, and I never really knew what that was like until you.  When I’m with you, I feel – I feel _safe_.

 

“I love you, and I don’t know if you feel exactly the same, but damint Steve, we could be _good_ together.  We’re smart, able, and hella attractive.  But we even each other out, and we both need that happy, okay.  We fit tighter like clock cogs, designed to move with each other perfectly and _everything_ , and I _love_ you, and just _say something.”_

 

Steve hesitated, which apparently gave Tony an answer.

 

“Right,” he said, face burning with anger and humiliation – and rejection, as Steve now knew – and turned away, sealing the elevator behind him.

 

The second the door shut, Steve flipped he couch and let out a wretched scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Steve. So obtuse until it's too late ;)
> 
> But the end is in sight! Only three chapters, and the epilogue, left!
> 
> *knows she's an attention whore but, checks her inbox for comments like 600 times a day*


	8. Pretty Red Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: underage drinking. Have to say it.

He regretted it as soon as he did it.  He checked the couch over for any damage.  There wasn’t any, and he breathed a sigh of relief.   Until he remembered why he had flipped it.

 

 _How_ on _Earth_ had he misread everything so badly?

 

But maybe, he thought as he righted the sofa and placed the cushions in their normal places, he had been reading everything right all along, and was just too much of an idiot to realize.

 

 

 

He went down to Tony’s workshop, but was met with blacked-out windows and the thrum of heavy metal through the floor.

 

 _“I am sorry, Captain, but Sir has revoked your access.”_   JARVIS sounded both accusatory and frustrated.  That made two of them.

 

“Just tell Tony I want to talk with him.  Really, really _talk_ ,” Steve found himself pleading.

 

A pause, then: _“I will, Captain.”_

 

The glass walls of the lab were soundproof, but it must have only been to a certain decibel level, because the vibrations increased enough that Steve felt his teeth chatter in his head.

 

_“Sir is refusing to see you, Captain.  May I suggest another time?”_

 

Nodding numbly, Steve headed back towards the elevator, with the strains of “Why Can’t This Be Love?” trying to shatter the glass behind him.

 

 

 

He was in the process of laying into the supersoldier-reinforced-yet-still-not-quite-enough punching bags when JARVIS spoke up.

 

_“Captain?”_

 

Steve pulled back a fist, curious of JARVIS’s tone.  The AI sounded cautious, but then, Steve looked out and saw night had fallen.  He only used the punching bags when he was angry or frustrated, otherwise preferring to use the other training equipment.  Repeatedly hammering the bags for hours at a time was no help whatsoever in gleaning new skills.  It didn’t do much in terms of releasing frustration either, but then again, someone usually came by and distracted him.  Usually Tony.

 

Had Tony set JARVIS to watch Steve and alert him if Steve seemed pissed?  Steve wouldn’t have put it past him.

 

And Steve had just spent hours fuming, but maybe Tony just didn’t care anymore.

 

“What, JARVIS?”  Steve knew he probably sounded rude, but if JARVIS couldn’t understand Steve’s frustration, he really was beyond caring.

 

_“Forgive me, Captain, but Sir’s protocol dictations for myself may be overridden in the case of harm to his well-being.”_

 

Unceasing dread filled Steve.  Could Tony have tried to . . . ?

 

“What did he do?” Steve shouted, already running for the elevator.

 

_“Sir has consumed dangerously high amounts of alcohol.  He is breathing, but I will defer to your judgment as what to do next.”_

 

“He’s just drunk?  He didn’t take . . . anything else?”

 

_“No, Captain.  It does not appear that Sir was trying to commit suicide, if that is what you were implying.”_

 

Steve allowed himself a tense exhalation.  “He’s breathing?”

 

_“Currently, but in the case of rapid gastrointestinal expulsion, that might not be the case.”_

 

Tony had gotten drunk.  How he had gotten the alcohol, and for what reason, Steve could probably guess, but Steve could understand Tony wanting to forget the last few hours.  JARVIS had contacted him probably only after Tony had passed out, and was concerned Tony would choke on his vomit.

 

The elevator opened with his usual soft ping, and Steve was already halfway down the hall.  The windows had returned to transparency, and Steve could see Tony slumped over on the floor by one of his work benches.

 

 _“Steeeeeebe,”_ Tony called, waving a pathetic hand.  He was on his back, listed limbs curled to the left.  He was wearing the pathetic smile of the seriously inebriated, and by the way his eyelids were flickering, was in and out of consciousness.

 

“JARVIS, call Pepper,” Steve ordered, sliding over to Tony’s prone figure.  He gently hauled Tony over on his side and placed two fingers in his moth to hold it open.  Tony lethargically tried to lick Steve’s fingers, and he grit his teeth.

 

_“Miss Potts has just arrived at her own apartment, but will return to the Tower immediately.  ETA, fifteen to twenty minutes.”_

 

“Thanks, JARVIS.  I’m gonna-“

 

Tony started retching.

 

In less than a second, Steve had Tony bent over the washtub sink, cluttered with greasy rags and tubs of GoJo.  A gush of dark, translucent, amber liquid came from Tony’s convulsing throat.

 

He waited a few moments for Tony to cough up the last of the vile liquid (there were no chunks, thankfully), then, as gently as he could, wiped Tony’s mouth out with trembling fingers.

 

“I guess we don’t need to get his stomach pumped, then.”

 

_“It would seem not, Captain.”_

 

Steve allowed himself one humorless snort.

 

 

 

He stripped Tony down to his underwear with shaking hands and propped him in the chemical shower for a few moments while he spoke to a frantic Pepper, who was stuck in traffic.  He only told her that Tony had locked himself in his lab and had gotten drunk.

 

“Pepper, has he ever done this before?”

 

She sighed, obviously fraught with worry.  _“We thought he had stopped after the palladium poisoning and becoming an Avenger.  He hasn’t done anything like this is over a year.  He was . . . erratic for a while, to say the least.  And before the kidnapping, well, I’ve only heard stories, but he was in college, if that’s any excuse.  Rhodey, before he went off to the Air Force Academy, was with Tony for the majority of his year at MIT, and told me that he thought Tony liked to . . . ‘drown his daddy issues in booze’, and I think he’s probably right.  But I don’t know what would make him do this now . . . .  You’re the closest to him nowadays, Steve.  Do you have_ any _idea what would have made him do this?”_

 

The leaden ball of guilt that had been forming since Steve had left Tony alone in the music room finally completely solidified and threatened to knock him down ninety floors and embed him in the pavement at Pepper’s accusatory tone.

 

“I think it - me.”

 

He would swear on his mother’s grave that he could hear Pepper purse her lips.  _“I’m not blaming you.  I know you two are at a . . . difficult point.  And Tony made this decision for himself.  But you and I will need to have a serious discussion after I check in with him.”_

 

Steve gulped.  “Right.”

 

_“Sounds like things came to a head between you two.”_

 

“You could say that.”

 

_“Mmmm.   I’ll be there soon.”_

 

“Great,” he muttered vaguely.  “Wait, how did you know we’re having problems?”

 

_“Natasha.”_

 

Steve gazed down at where Tony was listing sideways in the icy spray.  “I gotta get him upstairs.”

 

_“I’ll be there to help soon.”_

 

“Thanks, Pepper.”  He had JARVIS cut the call, then went about trying to find some sort of towel to dry Tony off.  There was drop cloth and raggedy bits of fabric everywhere, but Steve eventually found some old beach towels with Dum-E’s help.  He cut off the shower, and gently wiped the excess moisture from Tony’s stitches, before wrapping the genius in several towels and hoisting him up bridal style.

 

“Steeeeebe.  STEEEEBE,” Tony tugged at Steve’s shirt collar urgently.

 

“What, Tony?”

 

Tony burrowed into Steve’s neck, humming contentedly.  “Mmm.  Warm.”

 

The stale reek of bourbon and acidic vomit had abated somewhat, but Tony still smelled wrong.  Usually the mulled metallic scent of oil, the slightly smoky but also metallic smell of engine grease, and the gritty-yet-fresh orange pumice aroma clung to Tony like a second skin.  Now, beneath the alcohol and stomach acid was nothing but laundry soap and deep down, so far Steve might have been projecting it, the always (because it was Tony) metallic tang of blood.

 

(A few months ago, Tony had imperiously declared to everyone that he had the best hemoglobin levels out of the Avengers.  What he wouldn’t trade to go back to those days of easy friendship and raucous laughter, instead of . . . whatever this was now.)

 

He buried his nose in Tony’s hair anyway.

 

 

 

He and Pepper didn’t end up having their discussion.  She took one look at Steve hovering protectively over Tony’s bedside and said softly “Oh, Steve.”

 

 

 

“Tony-“

 

“Don’t,” Tony grunted, shuffling towards the coffee pot, assessing the carafe for a moment before taking a drag straight from the wide mouth (and why the hell was Steve distracted by the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed at a time like this?), and trying immediately to beat a hasty retreat with his coffee.

 

Steve stood on the door way.  “You need to eat, Tony – “

 

“I really don’t.”

 

“ – and we need to talk.”

 

“We really don’t.”

 

“Tony.”

 

He grimaced.  “Look, let’s just forget yesterday even happened, okay?  Let’s just – “

 

“Tony, I don’t think – “

 

The klaxon sounded.

 

Tony fled, with the coffee, limping slightly, and all Steve could was rush off to change and get his shield.

 

 

 

The Quinjet was waiting for them.

 

And there he stood: Iron Man.  In the buffed and glinting armor, an injured eighteen-year-old, in both body and spirit.

 

 _“Let’s get this over with,”_ came through the voice modulator.  And Steve was left to follow best he could, trying to see through the armor that had been designed to be impenetrable.

 

He had been given the access codes.  But they’d been changed on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short, guys. I've been having a terrible week (school, and a commenter has been giving me a hard time), and I kind of took my frustrations out on these two. They'll be fine soon enough. Next chapter. Promise.


	9. At This Moment, You Mean Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I'm SO SORRY if you saw this chapter earlier today. I was working on some crappy bits of this on my phone and accidentally hit "Post" with my frickin' sausage fingers. I deleted it as fast as I could (it was up for maybe a minute or two). Sorry if it was spoiled :( Most of it was saved elsewhere, thankfully.
> 
> *ehem* But now I present to you, Idiots in Love.

Three of the mottled goblin things were attached to his boot, and Steve didn't hesitate to smash them to jelly.

 

Probably a bit harsh, but he wasn't in the mood to be forgiving.

 

It wasn't the most grueling of battles, not by a long shot, but it was taking some time to take out all of the strange sewer goblins.  The main headache was making sure all civilians were evacuated to avoid the spray of mild acid.  And the heady stench of . . . well, sewer.

 

Steve could probably admit that he wasn’t in his best form.  Which wasn’t _too much_ of a problem, as the foot-tall creatures were squishy and not very smart, and Steve was ten times more capable than any normal foot soldier, but he still felt slightly ashamed when instead of nailing the creatures in the center of their bloated chest cavities, he lopped off limbs and had to try again.

 

Usually, Steve hated calling on the extremes of the raw power and property damage that came with teaming up with the Hulk, but there were times, he reflected as he tried to ineffectually wipe the orange acid off on his pant leg, that it could be useful.

 

After a quick test, the acidic substance had come back at a pH of two, but it was very weakly concentrated.  The goblins couldn’t spit it very far, and it wasn’t immediately corrosive (though he didn’t fancy cleaning up, but the local law enforcement keeping the perimeter had mentioned some issues with the pipes breaking down, so hopefully their problem could be fixed), so the main goal was to keep the liquid out of his eyes.

 

It was very obviously some genetic experiment gone wrong, but none of it was Steve’s main concern at the moment.

 

Every time Tony received even the tiniest hit or jolt in mid-air, he let out a pained hiss over the comm which had Steve suppressing the urge to drop his shield, rush to Tony's side, pick him up, and hide him away somewhere warm and safe until he was completely healed.  He was severely regretting his decision not to bench Tony, but it's wasn't like he could have anyway.  Two-thirds of the team was "on leave", and there wasn't much time to call them in at any rate.

 

Never mind that Tony wouldn't have paid any attention to the order even if they were still on decent terms.

 

They were in Jersey (because, where else would sewer goblins crawl onto the street and start spraying acid?), and never let it be said that Jersey put anyone in a decent mood.

 

He felt like ice was steadily creeping its way back into his heart.

 

It was killing him to not have Tony laughing and joking right there with him.

 

All he wanted, in that moment, was Tony next to him.

 

And why had all this happened?  Because Steve was blind?  No, he was a mislead idiot who thought he knew better than an eighteen-year-old genius what was right for him.

 

Really, why was it so wrong for him to be with Tony?  Because he was older?  Well, Steve was never going to have a relationship that lasted more than a couple years if he stuck to his peers.  There was a decent age difference between them, but then there was a decent age difference between him and everyone he knew except Peggy. 

 

Yes, Tony was still a teenager, and yes, he had emotional problems, but everyone that knew him had said that Tony had improved exponentially since he had joined the Avengers.  Eighteen was the age of majority, Tony was legally allowed to vote and pay taxes and marry and fuck and die for his country.

 

And it wasn’t like he was a fresh-faced, just out of high school brat who had never been in the real world.  Tony had been shot at and abused and tortured, he had seen the worst humanity could be, had been manipulated, learned to do all those things right back for his own defense.

 

He had fought, _so hard_ , to be accepted as a serious figure, as a business man and as Iron Man.

 

Why in the hell did Steve think Tony needed someone normal?  They wouldn’t be able to keep up.

 

He at least could follow a few steps right behind.

 

_Please let us work.  Please let us work.  Please let him listen to me._

 

 

 

His heart was too full.

 

"Goddamn it, Tony!" Steve shouted, marching over and peeling his helmet off.  He was projecting, as always.   But his anger felt vindicated.  With everything that was going on in his head and his heart right now, Steve felt the right to be frustrated with his life.  Tony being reckless and Tony not talking to him . . . .

 

Tony being love with him as Steve was in love with him.  And neither of them had known.

 

" _What_ , Steve?" Tony snapped, harsh as splitting ice and shifting snow, like something he had been buried in for ages and had no hoped of escaping.

 

But there _was_ a chance.  He had escaped the ice.  What's to say he couldn't overcome the void of pain and misunderstanding and longing?

 

A step that could spin him to heaven, so to could hurl him to hell.

 

Steve grit his teeth.  "Faceplate up," he grunted.

 

He would overcome this.  They could set this _right._

 

Tony put up the faceplate with a tisking noise, mumbling to himself about "Idiot" and "Never a chance" and "Measure up" and "Captain _fucking_ America".  Boiling hostility rolled off of Tony in crashing waves, but Steve stood in their onslaught, determined to see this out, to see where this led.

 

Determined to see if he could finally put the past behind him.

 

“Helmet, too.”

 

“Fuck, I’m not some figurine for you to polish and keep on a shelf!” he shouted as he ripped it off and let it fall from his fingers.

 

“Tony!  You’re not _invincible_ , no matter what you think!”

 

“Why would you _care_?”

 

“Because I – because I - ” Steve rucked his hands through his hair.

 

Tony was trembling, he was so angry.  “I get it.  Don’t try and explain-“

 

“Goddamn it, Tony!  Don’t put words in my mouth!”

 

“ _What_ then?” Tony eyes were shining like bright flint, and Steve was sure tears were only seconds from falling, but he was in Steve’s face, tiny bits of spit landing on his lashes.  “ _Why_ do you care?”

 

_“Because I’m in love with you!”_

 

Tony stood there, frozen, and Steve decided he was already in too deep, so he grabbed Tony’s jaw and kissed him.

 

Both of them froze, motionless lips pressed together, shock at what had just happened leaching into their joints.  But then Tony made a tiny noise, more of a vibration of his lips, and the surge of movement broke the dam.

 

Tony was still in the suit, but that didn’t stop Steve from wrapping his arms tightly around Tony’s shoulders, fingerers moving and digging into the tender skin of Tony’s slender throat, tangling in the soft curl at the nape of his neck, unconsciously trying to peel the armor away, to find the slender, muscled form beneath.

 

Tony returned by grasping desperately at Steve’s biceps, forearms, the bases of his shoulder blades, clawing and gripping like this was a one-time thing, like Steve wouldn’t be perfectly happy staying exactly like this for the rest of his life.

 

They both smelled awful, like sewer and sweat and the hot musky reek of dead animal, but beneath Steve found the metallic thrum of blood and smoky grease and orange cream hand cleaner and _Tony_.

 

He couldn’t tell which one of them was moaning.  Probably both of them.

 

It wasn’t like the soft, sweet first kisses they advertised.

 

No, instead it was hot and frustrated, teeth and tongue and damp breath. 

 

It was unskilled and harsh and painful and _perfect_.

 

It was one speaking at the other receiving, _finally_ , after all the miscommunication and jumping to conclusions.  They were in tandem as much as they had ever been, understanding what the other wanted before they even thought of it.

 

It was love.  Finally.

 

Steve had no intentions of ever pulling away, but he felt the soft tremor that meant Tony needed to breathe.  He pulled away enough to let Tony gasp and pull air into his lungs and expel the carbon dioxide Steve had breathed into him.  He relished the warmth of sour coffee breath on his face.

 

“Don’t put words in my mouth, but by all means, your tongue is welcome.”

 

Tony huffed a tiny desperate laugh, looking at Steve like he was some fever dream.

 

“I’m not imagining this?  You’re not some . . . evil twin or something?  You’re not gonna pull off your face and be the Red Skull?”

 

“Feel me.”

 

Tony gently pawed at Steve’s nose, eyes wide like he was discovering a  new element with a high atomic number but remained stable.

 

“But, Steve – _me?_   Wha – why?  You’re _you,_ and I’m – “ Tony gazed off, like he was seeing everyone who had ever oppressed or belittled him, “me.”  Like an afterthought.

 

Steve griped Tony’s jaw again, and angled him for eye contact, and oh, how he like the way Tony’s bones shifted under his fingers and his Adam’s Apple rolled along his palm.

 

“Tony, I may be the head, but _you’re_ the heart.  I may run this team, but you’re the center.  You may be softer than the rest of us, but you’re the only one who’s human, fully.  We circle around you.  You’re – you’re _home_.”

 

Beneath the redwood of Tony’s eyes was gold, shiny and incorruptible and delicate and precious.  “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“Right back at you.”

 

“I’m gonna wake up soon.”

 

“What usually happens before you wake up?”

 

“Well-“ Tony leaned in again.

 

_“Captain!  Mr. Stark!  Are you done tongue-fucking in the middle of the street?  Haul it in!”_

 

Tony groaned.  “Let’s go steal all of his eye patches.”

 

Steve just laughed, letting the unerring tension that he had been carrying dissolving in the acidic air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are. Took them long enough, but I hope it was worth the wait! Now, for smut and fluff.
> 
> (Pssst, I made a tumblr, [here](http://laudatenium.tumblr.com/), where I'm gonna start putting updates and stuff for my stories, if that is how you usually track updates and such. I'm not the best at working it yet, but hey, I'm trying.)


	10. Take Off Everything

It nearly felt like his leg was going to vibrate off.  Above the conference table, he was his usual post-battle self: stoic, silent, everything people expected of him. (So what if rarely paid close attention.  _They_ didn’t know that.)  But he was channeling all of his nervous energy into his leg, bouncing it at almost inhuman speed to stop from lunging over and pinning Tony to the table.

 

Just until the meeting was over.  He just had to wait until the meeting was over.

 

He couldn’t even _look_ at Tony.  He wouldn't be able to handle it.

 

They were sitting side by side at the table, and Steve could feel the hot line of his cock burning againt his thigh beneath the tight material of his uniform.  Even though there were several feet between himself and Tony, he could feel every tiny shift and movement from his . . . well, boyfriend would probably suffice.  They needed to talk, most definitely, but his self control had devolved to little more than clenching his fists, gritting his teeth, and resolutely not looking at Tony.

 

There was heady combination of both victorious expectation and skin-stripping nervousness heating the thick air between them.  It was caramelizing again, but this time there was no longing, no bitter feeling that comes with being denied something that sings your bones and turns your insides rancid.   _Something_ was going to happen, but he had no sure idea of what.

 

He wondered idly if Tony was hard beneath his undersuit.

 

But that wasn't a good idea to be entertaining in the middle of a crowded boardroom.

 

 

 

“Shower?” Tony gasped in Steve’s ear as he squirmed, pressed against the wall of his bedroom back at the Tower.  “We stink.”

 

 

 

“Tony,” Steve started as Tony was scrubbing his hands with GoJo, filling the muggy air with the cutting scent of orange, “are we, um – “

 

“Together?”  Tony looked up from his knuckles.  “I think we’d both like to be, so I guessing yes?”

 

“But what will being ‘together’ entail?”

  

“Well,” Tony scrubbed his forearms thoughtfully.  “Pretty much the same as before, except I won’t have to stop myself from reaching out to slap your ass or kiss you.  We can snuggle during movie night and make everyone vomit with how adorable we are.  You get to nag me more, and I’ll have to listen.  And we communicate, I guess.  I don’t have much experience with relationships."

 

The caramelized air had become liquid.  “What else can we do?”

 

“Maybe I can help you with that?” Tony nodded at his erection, and before he could even blink, Tony was on his knees in front of him, nuzzling gently, looking at him with slitted eyes.

 

“You don’t need t-to – “ The rest was lost as Tony unashamedly liked a hot stripe up the side, and despite the heat of the water and the steam and heat, that first touch of Tony’s tongue was like a brand to his dick.

 

Tony didn’t listen, just went about trying to remove Steve’s brain through his cock.

 

“Oh, _Tony_ ,” he moaned, and Tony hummed in agreement.

 

The _heat_ and _suction_ and the tiny sounds Tony was making were vibrating up his spine, and of course it was no surprise Steve was coming after only a few moments, and Tony sat back on his haunches, liking his lips as he eyed Steve’s still-aching cock.

 

"Holy _shit_ , Steve.  Have you ever tried to see just how long you last?"

 

"No, Tony.  I've been a bit busy to just sit around and masturbate all day."

 

The crazy, manic inventor gleam was shining in Tony's eyes.  "I could lend you a bit of help, if you wanted."

 

"Nah, I much prefer going solo."

 

"Sure, Steve," Tony grinned, standing, sopping hair curling slightly at the tips, and Steve just had to lean down and kiss him.  Tony moaned approvingly, curling a hand at the nape of Steve's neck and standing on tiptoe.  He yelped when Steve bodily lifted him, but quickly sunk into being carried, melting against Steve's torso as he shut the water off with one hand.

 

Still with Tony hoisted onto his hips, rubbing himself against Steve's abs eagerly, he stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel.  He gently lowered Tony to a bench and began to thoroughly dry him, rubbing the Turkish cloth gently over Tony's entire body.

 

He was a bit more vigorous in toweling himself off, kneeling between Tony spread thighs.  With a lazy grunt, Tony snagged a small hand towel and after a few harsh pulls through his own hair, he loped the towel around Steve's neck and pulled him in.

 

They kissed again, slow, and Steve could still taste the slightest hint of himself on Tony's tongue.  He shivered.

 

"Well, Captain." Tony lowered his voice an octave and allowed his eyes to fall to half-mast.  He was being ridiculously sultry, but Steve was on a hair trigger, and anything Tony did right now had Steve's blood thrumming and singing in his veins.  "Why don't we move this to the bedroom, hmmm?"

 

By way of answer, Steve lifted Tony once again and carried him to the bed.  He gently lowered a laughing Tony onto the pale blue sheets, keeping himself pressed against him as they moved once again to each other's mouths.

 

“I like the way you think.”

 

“You may be a technological genius, but I’m a tactical genius.”  He moved away to dig through Tony's bedside drawer, nudging aside the red vibrator in favor of a half-used bottle of lube.  "Condom?"

 

"Haven't gotten laid since before Afghanistan.  I'm clean, if you're . . . okay with bare."  Tony almost sounded ashamed.

 

"So much more than okay."  He turned back, and found he couldn't breathe.

 

It hit him as he gazed at Tony, lounging on his bed with his legs spread, what was happening.  They were together, _together_ , and they were going to be together tomorrow, and when that day was over, they would still be together.  This was _his_ now, the vision of Tony sprawled out on his expensive sheets, glowing damp and golden.

 

He was going to try his damnest to make sure he was the only one ever privy to this image.

 

"I love you," he blurted out, because he could think of nothing else to say.

 

Tony made grabby hands, and pulled him in for yet another kiss.  Steve could get used to kissing Tony.  It wasn’t calculated or perfect, but instead sloppy and wet and _perfect_.

 

“Love you, too.  _Jesus!_ ”

 

“Something the matter?” Steve asked innocently.

 

“You – you – “ Tony babbled as Steve languidly pumped is index finger in and out of Tony’s ass.  “More.  Fuck you, _more_.”

 

“I thought that was what I was doing to you,” Steve taunted, ignoring Tony’s requests.

 

“I can take _more,_ you’ve seen my – _sweet mother of –“_

 

Steve curled his fingers, Tony whining as he tried to get more pressure on his prostate.  Steve purposefully only skated it, loving the twisting, desperateness leaking from him.

 

“ _Steeeeve_ , stop _teasing_ ,” Tony gasped, trying to seat himself more fully on Steve’s fingers.

 

“Me?  Teasing?  And what have _you_ been doing the past few days, mmh?”

 

“Sorry, _sorry_ , just – _please_ – Steve,” he begged.

 

Deciding any longer would be cruel, Steve curled his fingers, rubbing firmly on the gland.  Tony howled.

 

“Yes – ohhh _yes_ – right there, right – Steve, _Steeeve_ , oh _God_ , _fuuuck_ ,” Tony babbled, drops of sweat trailing down his throat, making him glow gold in the low light.

 

He was so beautiful.  And all for Steve.

 

He was never going to get over it.

 

Taking advantage of the situation, Steve let himself trace the line of stitches across Tony’s chest and shoulder with his lips and tongue.  Tony gasped at the sensation, tears making his eyelashes stick together as he blinked blearily down, before immediately turning his head away, begging for more.  And of course Steve was helpless not to give it to him.

 

Tony let out an extended whine when Steve’s fingers sipped out of him, but let out an absolutely _broken_ sound when Steve slid back in, with extra lube and a third finger.

 

“ _Steeeeve_ , I’m gonna – I’m –“ Tony panted, face contorting with the effort to stave off his orgasm.

 

“Just come, Tony.  It’s alright, I got you,” Steve murmured, pressing a kiss to the juncture of Tony’s hip, who was making a drawn-out desperate sound.  “I wanna see you.  Come for me, Tony.”

 

With an half-strangled “ _St-ff_ ,” Tony came, clenching around Steve’s fingers .

 

He lightly traced a finger through Tony’s ejaculate before raising it to his lips for a taste.  Tony stared, slack jawed.

 

“Did I take the edge off?” Steve asked innocently, still sucking on a finger.

 

“You – you’re – “ Tony stuttered, and Steve saw his cock twitch again.

 

“You think you can come again?” he asked, voice pitching far lower than usual, but judging by how dilated Tony’s eyes were, and the feeble twitches coming from his cock, this wasn’t going to be over soon.  He grinned at the determined look that crossed Tony’s face.

 

“Oh, you’re evil.  You’re gonna kill me.  Anthony Edward Stark, age eighteen; cause of death, Captain America’s sex drive.”

 

“I’ll take that as a challenge.”

 

“You should.  Bastard hasn’t even fucked me yet.”

 

“Oh?” Steve teased, grabbing the lube once again.  “Why don’t we change that?”

 

Thank God for eighteen-year-olds.

 

 

 

It didn’t take much to have Tony hard and panting once again.

 

Tony was still very relaxed from Steve’s earlier ministrations, and it only took a few perfectly placed strokes that had Tony hissing from sensitivity and begging Steve to fuck him.

 

He made a mental note to remember this for future masturbatory material, until he realized, once he was fully enveloped in Tony, who was making tiny, desperate breathy sounds, that this wasn’t a temporary thing.

 

Tony was both tensed and relaxed, back arching up to meet him, face screwed up, clinging to Steve like a baby koala as he set a steady but relentless pace that had him grazing Tony’s prostate with every thrust.  Tony whimpered and gasped, eyelashes stuttering and clumping together with tears.  Steve worried for a moment, slowed when he saw the wetness on Tony’s face, terrified at what he might have done, until Tony growled “If you stop right _now_ , I will melt your shield down to make a car bumper and paperweights.”

 

It was utter ecstasy, moving in tandem with the man he loved, every breath out of his lungs was inhaled by with the man he loved, every breath out of his lungs was inhaled by Tony, and there was something beautiful and soft and vulnerable burning brightly in Tony’s cognac eyes, and Steve understood, finally, what the fuss was, why humanity wrote the same story again and again to try and find this heaven.

 

He had found love.  And he would never be out in the cold again.

 

They were both exceptionally worked up, so in no time Tony was clenching around him, crying out and pulling Steve over the glass-thin precipice.

 

And he had never understood the term “afterglow”, but lying in a rumpled bed afterwards with arms full of contented Tony, he finally did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, that was positively indecent *preens*
> 
> Just the epilogue left, my lovelies!


	11. Epilogue: I’ll Hum This Tune Forever

“Okay, it _smells_ good, but you have to admit they look pretty weird,” Tony groused through a mouthful of carrot.

 

“Does it really matter what they look like?  They’re just gonna end up dissolved is stomach acid,” Steve retorted, chopping the last of the fatty beef off the bones and proceeded to start skimming the excess fat from the skin of the soup.  "You can order out, and leave the rest to me.”

 

“Nnnno, you made it for _me_ , so _I_ will eat it if it kills me.”

 

They were in the kitchen, Steve at the stove and Tony sitting on the counter next to him, Captain America socks dangling a foot off the ground.  Steve had complained that Tony _needed to stop it already with the Cap merchandise_ , but Tony had ignored him.

 

_“I’m gonna get us matching ‘my boyfriend is a superhero’ shirts!  Oh, and promise me you’ll wear the Iron Man ‘my boyfriend’s abs are made of steel’ one, it’s my favorite.”_

 

Then Steve had ‘tried’ to smother Tony with a pillow, which had devolved into the two of them smashing each other in the head with pillows, which then turned to play wresting, which ended up with Tony deep-throating his cock while Steve simultaneously demonstrated his nonexistent gag reflex.

 

It was odd, the feeling of ninety plus years of sexual frustration sloughing off in less than twelve hours, but it a pleasant odd feeling.  Though Steve preferred the snuggling afterwards.

 

Steve kept meaning to sit down, tell Tony they needed to talk, and find out just where they stood in terms of their new relationship, but they just sort of . . . fell into being together. 

 

After they fell asleep in Tony’s room the previous afternoon, they had woken up after dark with growling stomachs.  Steve had reheated dinner for the two of them, and afterward they watched _Die Hard_ and ended up fooling around on the couch before Steve picked Tony up and carrying him to bed.

 

They’d had sex no fewer than five times in the past twelve hours, but it didn’t feel like they were just using each other.  Not in the way that Tony pulled Steve’s arms around him as the fell asleep afterwards, not in way that warm sunlight had refracted in his eyes when they woke in the morning.

 

Not in the way Tony had kisses his fingers and murmured something that he couldn’t hear, but felt in his bones as _I love you_.

 

“Actually, I think I can finish the pot off by myself,” Steve taunted.

 

"What?" Tony squawked.  "How dare you?   _Steve - "_

 

 _"Tony,"_ Steve shot back, and Tony stuck out his tongue at him.

 

They ended up making out, before "I see you two finally got your heads out of your asses," rang out from the direction of the elevator.

 

Clint was holding a half-eaten box of donuts, Thor had three unopened boxes, and Natasha and Bruce were carrying coffee.

 

“Did you get donuts without us?  You bitches,” Tony yelped, his ironclad grip preventing Steve from moving away from his tight embrace.

 

“Sh’t ‘p, ‘ony.  ‘e broa’ ‘um,” Clint said through a mouth full of fried dough.  He gestured with his box.

 

“Mmm, maybe later.  My _boyfriend_ is making me soup.”

 

“Can’t finish it unless you let go,” Steve chuckled.  Tony pouted, but released him, and Steve began picking through the broth for the bay leaves.

 

“No more donuts.  What type is it, Steve?” Natasha ordered.

 

“Oxtail,” Steve said as he dumped the meat back into the broth.

 

“I had an oxtail soup in Mexico once.  Tomatoes and green beans?” Bruce asked.

 

“Nope.  Irish recipe.  Onions, carrots, potatoes.”

 

“Well, it smells delicious at any rate.”

 

“Guess the secret ingredient,” Tony bounced up and down.

 

“Blood,” Nat said with a straight face.

 

“It’s not bodily fluids, is it?” Clint asked warily.

 

Tony made a face.  “Ugh, no.  You guys are disgusting.  Beer.  Specifically, Guinness.  And before you say it, yes I too am shocked that our America boy likes Irish beer.”

 

“It helps the stock and adds unique flavor.  And must I remind everyone that I’m only a second-generation Irish immigrant?  They’d let me get citizenship if I applied for it.”

 

“They’d let Captain America become an Irish citizen?” Clint snorted.

 

“I enjoy the Irish,” Thor announced.  “They have a zest for life that I find endearing.”

 

“Thanks, Thor.  Just why _did_ you guys all go for donuts?”  Steve asked before he had to explain Diaspora to Clint _again._

 

“Well, we all got back into town a few hours ago, and thought we’d give you a few more hours to sort yourselves out,” Bruce supplied, stacking the pastry boxes on the counter next to the fridge.

 

“The big guy didn’t wanna walk in on you two fucking on the couch,” Clint called over from the table, as he plopped down and swung his boots up to rest on the edge.

 

“I _would_ , but my ass it still sore.  And I have more class than to take some guy’s virginity on a couch,” Tony griped.  Steve just closed his eyes and breathed through this nose as Clint let out a surprised victory whoop.

 

“You already fucked?  Now _that’s_ an important development.”

 

“Yes, sex is more important than us deciding to admit our undying love,” Tony threw a carrot at Clint’s head.  The archer somehow managed to catch it in his mouth.  “Plus, we have a lot of time to make up for.”

 

Natasha was looking at Steve with undeniable approval. 

 

“I win,” she grinned, “pay up, you three.”

 

“Aww, Nat,” Clint slumped and let his head hit the table.

 

“Come now, we must honor the terms of our gamble,” Thor berated him.

 

“Wait,” Steve slammed his ladle down.  “The whole reason you did this was so you could _win a bet?_ ”

 

“Calm down, Steve.  You two needed to get together already.  So what if we had a friendly wager on it,” Natasha smiled like the Cheshire Cat, “you’re together.  The end goal has been achieved.”

 

“I asked you – and you were – “ Steve spluttered.

 

“Look, Steve, Clint and I have a usual bet.  Thor wanted in, so Bruce went in as well.  It’s not a huge deal.”  Steve still looked about ready to throw something, so Nat turned to the others.  “Okay, pay up and show our good Captain what was at stake before he has a coronary.”

 

With a flourish, Clint pulled a crumpled bill from his armpit.  Bruce rifled through his battered leather wallet, and gathered Thor’s offering.  Natasha accepted the money, completely ignoring the damp look of Clint’s, and fanned them out for Steve and Tony to see.

 

Three ones.

 

“Should I be offended?  I’m worth more than that,” Tony muttered.

 

“Money wasn’t the goal.  It was a ceremonial bet.  We got you two into a relationship.  That was what was at stake,” Nat winked as she tucked the three dollars into her pocket.

 

“Well, look at it this way, they care for us enough to put money on our happiness,” Tony smiled at him, and it was just so brilliant, Steve just had to kiss him.

 

“Ugh, is this what we’re gonna have to put up with now?” Clint complained before Natasha cuffed her ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much if you have stuck with this through the end! I really appreciate all the comments and kudos I've gotten! I love you all so much, and I hope you continue to like what I have coming up!
> 
> I 'm on [tumblr](http://laudatenium.tumblr.com/), if you wanna come say hi or just throw prompts at me.


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